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THE 


TRAGEDY   OF 


Anne  Boleyn. 


A  DRAMA  IN  CIPHER 

FOUND  IN  THE  WORKS- OF 

SIR  FRANCIS  BACON. 


DECIPHERED  BY 

ELIZABETH  WELLS  GALLUP. 


DETROIT,  MICHIGAN,  U.  S.  A.: 

HOWARD  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 

LONDON: 

GAY  &  BIRD, 
22  Bedford  St.  Strand. 


^ir  t 


Copyright,  1901. 

BY  V.  KING  MOORE. 


Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall, 
London, 

1901. 


All  rights  reserved. 


^JU 


PART  I 


FRANCIS  BACON'S 


BI-LITERAL  CIPHER 


THE  DECIPHERED  SECRET  STORY 


From  Original  Editions  in  British  Museum 


i^yg  to  i^go. 


NOTE. 

This  part  of  the  Bi-Uteral  Cypher  is  placed  here 
as  introductory  to  the  Tragedy,  being  explanatory 
of  the  Cipher  inventions  at  their  inception.  The 
continuation  of  the  Bi-literal,  as  deciphered — from 
1590  to  the  end  of  Bacon's  career — will  be  found  in 
the  Second  ( limited )  Edition  of  The  Bi-literal  Cypher 
of  Francis  Bacon. 

A  Third  Edition,  embracing  all  the  Bi-literal 
that  has  been  deciphered,  is  issued  simultaneously 
with  this  First  Edition  of  llie  Tragedy  of  Anne  Boleyn. 


PUBLIJ^IIIEES'  NOTE. 

THIRD   EDITION. 

The  publication  of  the  second  edition  of  the  Bi-literal 
Cypher  of  Francis  Bacon,  which  embraced  the  j^eriod  of  his 
Cipher  writing  between  1590  and  the  end  of  his  career, 
emphasized  the  importance  of  finding  the  earlier  writings 
— preceding  1590.  The  old  books  necessary  to  the  re- 
search conld  not  be  procured  in  America,  and  during  the 
summer  of  1900  Mrs.  Gallup  and  her  assistant,  Miss  Kate 
E.  Wells,  visited  England  to  carry  on  the  work  in  that 
treasure  house  of  early  literature,  the  British  Museum. 
,  The  investigations  yielded  rich  returns,  for  in  Shepheard's 
t^\  Calender  of  1579  was  found  the  commencement  of  what 
proved  to  be  an  important  part  of  Bacon's  life  work. 

Following  Shepheard's  Calender,  the  works  between 
1579  and  1590,  so  far  deciphered,  are: 

Araygnement  of  Paris,  1584;  Mirrour  of  Modestie, 
1584. 

Planetomachia,  1585. 

Treatise  of  Melancholy,  1586.  Two  editions  of  this 
were  issued  the  same  year,  with  differing  Italics.  The  first 
ends  with  an  incomplete  cipher  word  which  is  completed  in 
the  second  for  the  continued  narration,  thus  making  evident 
which  was  first  published,  unless  they  were  published  at 
the  same  time. 

Euphues,  1587;  Morando,  1587.  These  two  also  join 
together,  with  an  incomplete  word  at  the  end  of  the  first 
finding  its  completion  in  the  commencement  of  the  Cipher 
in  the  second. 

Perimedes  the  Blacke-smith,  1588;  Pandosto,  1588. 
These  two  also  join  together. 


Spanish  Masquerade,  1589.  Two  editions  of  this  work 
bear  date  the  same  year,  but  have  different  Italicising.  In 
one  edition  the  Cipher  Story  is  complete,  closing  wdth  the 
signature :  "Fr.,  Prince."  In  the  other  the  story  is  not 
complete,  the  book  ending  with  an  incomplete  cipher  word, 
the  remainder  of  which  will  be  found  in  some  work  of  a 
near  date  which  has  not  yet  been  indicated. 

Several  months  were  spent  in  following,  through  these 
old  books,  the  thread  of  the  concealed  story  until  it  joined 
the  work  which  had  already  been  published.  Overstrained 
eye-sight,  from  the  close  study  of  the  different  forms  of 
Italic  letters,  and  consequent  exhaustion  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Gallup,  compelled  a  cessation  of  the  work  before  all 
that  would  have  been  desirable  to  know  concerning  that 
early  period  was  deciphered ;  and  w^hile  these  are  not  all  the 
works  in  which  Cipher  will  be  found,  between  the  years 
1579  and  1590,  they  are  sufficient  unmistakably  to  connect 
the  earlier  writings  wdth  those  of  later  date  which  had 
already  been  deciphered — as  published  in  the  Bi-literal 
Cypher — so  that  we  now  know  the  Cipher  writings  were 
being  continuously  infolded  in  Bacon's  works,  for  a  period 
of  about  forty-six  years,  from  the  first  to  the  last  of  his  lit- 
erary productions,  including  some  matter  he  had  prepared, 
which  was  published  by  Rawley  subsequent  to  1626. 

These  few  pages  of  deciphered  matter,  now  added  to  that 
published  in  the  Second  Edition,  have  a  unique  distinction 
in  the  costliness  of  their  production,  but  they  are  of  ines- 
timable value,  historically,  as  well  as  from  a  literary  point 
of  view,  in  demonstrating  with  certainty  the  scope  and 
completeness  of  the  Cipher  plan  which  has  so  long  hidden 
the  secrets  of  a  most  eventful  period. 


FEAXCIS  BACOI^'S  BI-LITERAL  CYPHER. 


SHEPHEARD'S  CALEIs^DER.     1570. 

DEDICATION   BY  "E.   K."   1579. 
ATTRIBUTED    TO    ED.    SPENSER,    1611. 

E.  K.  wil  bee  found  to  be  nothing  lesse  then  th'  letters 
signifying  th'  future  sov'raigne,  or  England's  King. 
Th'  present  Queene,  purely  selfish  in  all  that  doth  in  a 
sorte  make  for  proper,  tho'  tardie  recognition  of  that  true 
prerogative  of  roiale  bloud,  doth  most  boldly  and  co'sta'tly 
oppose  with  h'r  argume'ts  th'  puny  effort  in  our  cause 
which  hath  most  disprov'd  abilitie  to  uphold  our  true  and 
rightful  (but  at  this  present  time,  very  little  seene  or  onely 
partlie  ghest)  clayme  to  roiall  pow'r.  In  event  o'  death  of 
her  Ma. — who  bore  in  honourable  wedlocke  Robert,  now 
known  as  sonne  to  Walter  Devereux,  as  wel  as  him  who  now 
speaketh  to  th'  yet  unknowne  aidant  discypherer  that  wil 
open  the  dores  of  the  sepulcher  to  break  in  sunder  the  bonds 
and  cerementes  of  a  marvaillous  historic, — we  the  eldest 
borne,  should,  by  the  Divine  right  of  a  lawe  of  God  made 
binding  on  man,  inherit  scepter  and  thron'. 

Lest  most  vilde  historic  have  no  penne  so  bolde  as  to 
write  out  some  daungerous  matter'  that  have  of  late  beene 
layd  bare  to  us,  we  have  made  search  for  anie  such  secret 
mode  of  transmission  as  might  conceale  this  whollie,  yet  in 
time,  or  it  may  chance  ere  long,  chose  the  readers.  Eayling 
in  this,  as  all  our  existing  meanes  have  alwaie[a]  like  sorte 
of  keie  held  by  each  interpreter,  wee  devis'd  two  Cyphars 
now  us'd  for  th'  first  time,  for  this  saide  secret  historic,  as 
cleere,  safe,   and  undecipherable, — whilst  containing  th' 


f  0 


2  BI-LITERAL  CYPHER  OF  FRANCIS  BACON 

keyes  in  each  which  open  the  most  important, — as  anie 
device  that  witholdeth  th'  same.  Till  a  discypherer  finde 
a  prepar'd,  or  readily  discover'd,  alphabet,  it  semeth  to  us 
a  thing  almost  impossible,  save  by  Divine  gift  and  heavenly 
instinct,  that  he  should  bee  able  to  read  what  is  thus 
reveal' d. 

It  may,  percha'ce,  remaine  in  hiding  untill  a  future 
people  furnish  wittes  keener  then  these  of  our  owne  times 
to  open  this  heavilie  barred  entrance-way  and  enter  the 
house  of  treasure.  Yet  are  we  in  hourly  terror  least  th' 
Queene,  our  enemie  at  present,  altho'  likewise  our  mother, 
be  cognisant  of  our  invention.  It  is  for  good  cause,  there- 
fore, that  our  worst  f  eares  cling  to  us  so  consta'tly  that  our 
intention  is  alter'd,  and  the  cheefe  Cyphar  be  not  heerein 
set  forth  in  such  manner  as  was  meant. 

FE.  B. 


THE  AEAYGIS^EMENT  OF  PAEIS.     1584. 

GEORGE  PEELE. 

By  usi'g  our  Word  Cyphar  heere,  our  labours  are 
greatlie  increast.  Wittes  must  be  keen  in  a  like  search — 
waiting  also,  at  other  seasons,  as  a  warie  mind  must  oft  to 
get  th'  game,  yet  making  noe  noyse  in  his  rejoyci'g  over  th' 
great  discoverie.  Wee  write  in  this  constant  dread  least 
our  secret  history  may  be  found  and  sette  out  ere  we  be 
safe  ev'n  fro'  th'  butcher's  deadlie  axe,  and  make  manie  a 
shift  sodainely  for  saftie.  Be  not  then  caste  downe  if  there 
be  much  that  is  promist  you  for  which  you  shal  long  hunt 
vainlie,  since  we  have  so  oft  bene  seyzed  with  violent  feare 
of  that  which  might  arise  thence.  The',  manifold  times, 
our  tho'ght  sodainely  changeth  answer  therto.  But  it  wil 
in  due  time  bee  related  wholly.     Safety  should  arise,  no 


IN  THE  ARAYGNBMENT  OF  PARIS.  3 

lesse  then  knowledge,  from  time's  passage.     Our  mother 
\;an  hardly  be  immortall. 

It  is  also  true  that  increast  writi'gs  greatlie  lessen  our 
chaunces  of  losse ;  for  when  portio's  are  widelie  scattered, 
as  herein,  most  shal  see  but  Latine  and  Greeke  in  diverbs 
of  rare  worth,  nor  see  our  free  use  of  great  Virgill's  vers', 
translated  in  the  schools,  and  the  more  wondrous  Homer, 
his  poemes.  Their  eies  rest  on  our  Cyphar,  yet  to  divulge 
th'  secret  is  not  in  th'  power  of  any  that  live  at  present ;  for 
it  is  yet  in  meere  infancy  and  none  recognise  th'  forme  and 
features  that  it  is  at  length,  wee  doubt  not,  to  donne,  as  it 
comnieth  to  height  of  developed  body. 

In  sorrowe  we  set  wordes  herein:  we  know  not  their 
fate  nor  ours  in  a  future  near  or  farr,  for  we  are  in  truth 
th'  luckles  Prince  of  Wales,  whome,  alas,  wit  no  way  o'  safe 
escape  hath  taughte,  if  it  bee  not  in  hiding  wel  our  mar- 
vaillous  storie,  in  order  to  communicate  it  to  some  distant 
friends,  whose  loialtie — to  princes  of  a  rank  such  as  ours — 
may  serve,  at  God's  morn  of  aidance,  as  e'courageme't.  By 
uniting  many  pow'res — such  lofty  endevou'  for  perfect- 
ing th'  knowledge  that  is  in  the  world,  joined  also  wdth  a 
strife  for  th'  elevation,  in  all  kingdoms  under  heaven,  of 
this  whole  people — th'  Divine  wil  or  planne  doth  perchance 
have  full  swaie:  for  when  mankinde  shall  bee  given  wise- 
dome  in  so  great  fuUnes,  idle  courtiers  may  find  no  true 
use  of  subtile  arts.  We  ourself  hate,  with  princely  hatred, 
artes  now  exercised  to  keepe  th'  vanitie  of  our  regall  parent 
glowing  like  fire,  for  God  hath  laid  on  that  head  a  richer 
crowne  then  this  diademe  upo'  her  brow,  yet  wil  she  not 
displaie  it  before  all  eies.  It  is  th'  rich  crowne  of  mothe'- 
hoode.     Our  true  title  is 

PR.  OF  WALES. 


BI-LITERAL  CYPHER  OF  FRANCIS  BACON. 


THE  MIRKOUK  OF  MODESTIE.     1584. 

ROBERT    GREENE. 

Eor  our  latest  booke,  it  will,  at  first,  seeme  probable 
to  our  disciph'rer,  one  part  doth  lacke  here — a  part  that 
had  created,  as  it  were,  some  secret  world  into  which  the 
unseing  can  by  noe  meanes  e'ter.  Our  discoverer,  whose 
sight  lookt  through  all  th'  disguises,  hath  bin  fro'  th'  first 
familiar  with  a  most  secret,  as  it  is  most  dangerous,  con- 
fession that  is  so  framed  it  hinteth  th'  strange  things  it 
would  relate,  hath  also  seene  in  these  letters  two  kinds 
necessarie  to  the  Cypher,  and  will  teach  this  discipherer 
our  designe, — wee  having  invented  two  excellent  waies  of 
co'cealing  in  our  Avorkes  a  secret  so  dangerous  it  would  at 
once  cost  life,  fame,  fortu'e — all  that  wee  hold  deare. 

We  are  firstborne  to  th'  soe-called  virgin  that  gov- 
erneth  our  realme,  Queene  Elizabeth.  In  event  of  the 
abdication  or  death  of  the  Queene,  wee  this  sonne, — 
Francis,  Prince  of  Wales, — inherit  this  throne  and  this 
crowne,  and  our  land  shall  rejoice,  for  it  shall  have  a  wise 
soveraigne.  God  e'dued  us  with  wisedome,  th'  gift  granted 
in  answer  to  Salomon's  prayers.  It  is  not  in  us  aught 
unmeet  or  headie-rash  to  say  this,  for  our  Creatour  onlie  is 
prais'd.  ISTone  will  charge  here  manifestation  of  worldly 
vanitie,  for  it  is  but  th'  pride  naturall  to  mindes  such  as 
we  in  joy  e,  indeed,  in  common  with  all  youthfuU  roial 
pri'ces.  If  it  should  bee  Avanting,  then  might  all  men  saye 
wee  lack'd  th'  very  essence  of  a  roiall  or  -a  ruling  spirit,  or 
judge  that  we  were  unfit  to  raigne  over  mightie  England.  It 
is  oncly  one  of  our  happie  dreemes  of  a  day  to  come,  that 
doth  draw  us  on  to  build  upon  this  grou'd,  inasmuch  as  it 
shall  be  long,  perhaps, — if  soe  bright  a  daye  dawne, — ere  we 
shal  bask  in  his  sunny  rayes.     Even  now,  th'  mother  who 


IN  THE  MIRROUR  OF  MODESTIE.  5 

might  proclayme  our  succession  doth  scarcely  keep  us  in 
her  imployment.  At  no  time  doth  a  love  for  her  two  sonnes 
so  move  her,  as  to  lead  her,  a  queene  bj  inherited  right,  to 
do  as  her  roiall  pare't  had  providently  done,  or  to  declare 
the  succession  should  be  to  her  right  hey  res  by  a  just  union 
with  that  wel  markt  sutour,  Robert  D. 

Fine  mindes  as  ours  cannot  suffer  this  fortune  without 
making  anie  attempte  to  recover  by  skilKuU  meanes  th' 
fame,  if  not  th'  honour,  which  unkind  fates  have  taken  away 
from  us.  Wee  fain  would  write  workes  most  lofty  in  their 
style,  which,  being  suited  as  well  to  representation  upon  th' 
stage  as  to  bee  read  in  libraries,  may  soe  go  foorth  and  so 
re'ch  manie  in  th'  land  not  as  wise,  mayhap,  in  knowledge, 
yet  as  great  as  others  in  loialtie  and  in  fierie  spirit.  If  that 
deficiency  be  in  a  measure  filled  in  our  realme,  this  labour 
in  coming  yeeres  wil  surely  bee  of  benefit,  although  it  bee 
unknowne  for  a  long  season  what  is  the  cause  and  ultimate 
designe,  and,  in  the  end,  our  new  inventio'  wil  excell  this 
as  a  mode  of  transmitting  all  matters  of  a  secret  or  delicat' 
nature.  It  requyreth  more  time  in  preparation,  since  pains 
must  necessarilie  be  used  least  the  keyes  bee  lost  in  giving 
the  parts  locatio'  that  altereth  th'  sense.  As  naught  else 
was  intended  when  our  original  designe  was  fourm'd, — a 
change  of  that  which  shal  bee  imparted  in  this  way, — the 
hidden  epistle  thus  safely  preserv'd  from  th'  wrackes  of 
time's  floode,  can  bee  understood  as  importa't  to  our  people 
of  Brittain,  even  as  to  us,  for  'tis  their  own  roiall  Prince, 
who,  sufferi'g  such  ^vrongs,  can  patie'tlie  beare  th'  silent 
houres  noe  longer,  though  life  should  ever  hang  in  the  bal- 
ance for  th'  rashnesse. 

One  thing  doth  somewhat  encourage  our  young  faith 
in  enjoyment  heereafter  of  our  kingdo'e ;  that  is,  our  advice 
from  a  friend  whose  wise  counsaile  hath  long  bin  aidante 
and  comforting.  It  is  to  this  effect :  That  in  age  is  a  sense 
of  dutie  most  felt,  as  is  made  plaine  in  freque't  marked 


6  BI-LITERAL  CYPHER  OF  FRANCIS  BACON 

examples  of  tardie  restorations — late  in  life — many 
examples  of  a  deathbed  arousing  a  man,  his  dormant  con- 
science, to  such  sense  of  justice,  that  all  wrong,  i'  his  power 
to  see  rectified,  in  wisedo'e  have  beene  righted.  Wee  there- 
fore have  beene  in  hope  of  our  winni'g  this  inherita'ce  in 
due  time.  We  know  how  w^earie,  ever,  is  hope  deferr'd. 
In  th'  Holy  Booke  of  th'  Scripture  it  saith :  "Hope  deferrM 
maketh  the  heart  sicke." 

Bee  not,  however,  of  opinion  our  hope  is  immediately 
to  become  England's  King.  Wee  request  but  our  naturall 
right :  that  w^e  be  declar'd  the  true  heyre  as  the  first  borne 
son  to  our  Queene,  borne  to  her  in  honourable  marriage 
with  Robert  D. ;  the  Prince  o'  Wales  whyles  our  parent  be 
livi'g,  but  the  propper  souveraigne  wdth  name  and  stile 
quite  disstinct  fro'  others — English  kings  having  soe  farre 
had  no  Erancis  on  th'  scrowl  that  co'tayneth  their  worthy 
Christian  names — in  proper  course  o'  time,  as  other  that 
were  princes  have  had  fortune  before  this  in  our  realm. 

Th'  earliest  shews  of  favour  of  this  roial  mother,  as 
patronesse  rather  than  parent,  were  scene  when  she  hon- 
or'd  our  roofe  so  farre  as  to  become  th'  guest  of  goode  Sir 
I^icholas  Bacon — that  kinde  man  wee  suppos'd  our  father 
then,  as  well  wee  might,  for  his  unchangeable  gentle  kind- 
nesse,  his  consta't  carefullnesse  for  our  honour,  our  safetie, 
and  true  advancement.  These  become  marked  as  th'  studie 
that  wee  pursew'd  did  make  our  tong  sharp  to  replie  when 
shee  asked  us  a  perplexing  question,  never,  or  at  least 
seldome,  lacking  Greeke  epigram  to  fit  those  shee  quoted, 
and  wee  were  ofte  bro't  into  her  gracious  presence.  It 
liveth,  as  do  dreemes  of  yesternight,  when  now  wee  close 
our  eies — the  statelie  moveme'ts,  grace  of  speech,  quick 
smile  and  sodaine  anger,  that  oft,  as  April  cloudes  come 
acros  the  sunne  yet  as  sodainly  are  withdrawn,  fill'd  us 
with  succeeding  dismay,  or  brim'd  our  cup  immediately 
with  joy. 


IN  THE  MIRROUR  OF  MODESTIE.  7 

It  doth  as  ofte  recur  that  th'  Queene,  our  roiall  mother, 
sometimes  said  in  Sir  Xicholas'  eare  on  going  to  her  coach : 
"Have  him  wel  instructed  in  knowledge  that  future  station 
shal  make  necessary."  I^aturally  quick  of  hearing,  it 
reaching  our  eares  was  caught  o'  th'  wing,  and  long  turned 
and  pondered  upon,  but  we  found  no  meaning,  for  all  our 
witte,  no  whisp'red  woorde  having  passed  th'  lippes  of  noble 
Sir  ^Nicholas  on  the  matter.  It  was  therefore  long  ere  we 
knew  our  birth  roial,  and  th'  fond  love  of  both  foster 
parentes  was  restrainte  and  staye  to  our  young  spirit  when 
the  wild  and  fierie  tempest  sodainelie  brast  upo'  us.  This 
dread  force  would  otherwise  have  ruined,  wasted  and  borne 
us  adrift  like  a  despoil'd  harvest. 

In  course  of  time,  in  a  horrible  passio'  of  witles  wrath, 
th'  revelation  was  thus  flasht,  like  as  lightning,  upon  us  by 
our  proude  roial  parent  herself  e.  We  were  in  prese'ce — as 
had  manie  and  oftentimes  occurr'd,  Que.  E.  havi'g  a  liking 
of  our  manners — with  a  nomber  o'  th'  ladies  and  severall  of 
the  gentlemen  of  her  court,  when  a  seely  young  maiden 
babied  a  tale  Cecill,  knowing  her  weakeness,  had  whispered 
in  her  eare.  A  daungerous  tidbit  it  was,  but  it  well  did 
satisfy  th'  malicious  soule  of  a  tale-bearer  such  as  R.  Cecill, 
that  concern'd  not  her  associate  ladies  at  all,  but  th'  honour, 
the  honesty  of  Queene  Elizabeth.  ISToe  sooner  breath'd 
aloude  then  it  was  hearde  by  the  Queene,  noe  more,  in 
truth,  then  half e  hearde  then  'twas  avenged  by  th'  enraged 
Queene.  ^ever  had  we  seene  fury  soe  terrible,  and  it  was 
some  time  that  wee  remayned  in  silent,  horror-strook  dis- 
maye,  at  the  fiery  overwhelming  tempest.  At  last — when 
stript  of  al  her  fraile  attire,  the  poor  maid  in  frightened 
remors'  lay  quivering  at  Queene  Elizabethes  feet,  almost 
depriv'd  o'  breath,  stil  feeblie  begging  that  her  life  be 
spar'd  nor  ceasi'g  for  a  mome't  till  sense  was  lost — no 
longer  might  we  looke  upon  this  in  silence;  and  bursting 
like  fulmin'd  lightning  through  the  waiting  crowde  of  the 


8  BI-LITERAL  CYPHER  OF  FRANCIS  BACON. 

astonished  courtiers  and  ladies,  surrou'ding  in  a  widening 
circle  this  angrj  Fury  and  her  prey,  wee  bent  a  knee  cravi'g 
that  wee  might  lifte  up  the  tender  bodie  and  bear  it  thence. 
A  dread  sile'ce  that  foretels  a  storm  fell  on  the  Queene  for 
a  space,  as  th'  cruell  light  waxed  brighter  and  th'  cheeke 
burnt  as  th'  flame.  As  the  fire  grew  to  blasti'g  heat,  it  fell 
upon  us  like  the  bolt  of  Jove.  Losing  controU  immediatelie 
of  both  judgement  and  discretion,  th'  secrets  of  her  heart 
came  hurtling  forth,  stunning  and  blasting  the  sense,  till 
we  wanted  but  a  jot  of  swooning  likewise.  ISTot  onely  did 
wee  believe  ourselfe  to  be  base,  but  also  wee  beleeved  the 
angry  reproaches  of  such  kinde  as  never  ftm  bee  cleared 
awaie,  for  she  declar'd  us  to  be  the  fruit'  of  a  union  of  the 
sorte  that  is  oft  lustfuU  and  lascivious — the  secret;  and  in 
suppressing  th'  name  of  our  father,  she  did  in  very  truth 
give  us  reaso'  to  f  eare  the  blot  of  which  we  speake. 

When,  however,  Ladie  Anne  Bacon,  hearing  th'  tale 
which  wee  tolde,  made  free  and  full  relation  how  this  secret 
marriage  with  th'  Earle,  our  fonde  sire, — whom  we  knew 
little  and  lov'd  not  more  then  was  due, — was  consumated, 
it  greatlie  excited  our  imagination,  so  that  w^e  wrote  it 
downe  in  a  varietie  of  formes,  and  intende  the  use,  both  as 
one  part  of  her  history  relating  closelie  to  our  o'wne,  and  as 
suited  to  representative  historic  that  may  bee  acted  on  our 
stage. 

The  preparatio'  that  must  naturallie  be  made,  can  bee 

wel  understood  to  be  much  greater,  inasmuch  as  it  must  be 

secret  as  the  grave ;  but  it  can  yet  bee  accomplish'd,  if  time 

be  granted  to  carrie  out  our  Cyphars  as  devis'd.     Seeke,  in 

th'  kind  of  letters  now  us'd,  for  one  more  secret  storie :  after 

disciph'ring  the   same,   then  look  onely  to  the  Italicke 

pri'ting. 

F. 


IN  PLANETOMACHIA. 


PLAE^ETOMACHIA.     1585. 

ROBERT   GREENE. 

With  great  and  patie't  perseverance,  unending,  resolute 
labour,  such  as  you  shall  also  shew  at  eventide  and  at  mome 
if  you  winne  lawrells, — or  finde  a  cyphar  none  will  have 
the  honour  or  th'  favour  to  employ,  asuredlie,  for  a  short 
per-iode, — this  work  is  dutifully  persued  for  our  advance- 
me't.  As  all  may  know,  in  time,  the  reason  wdiy  'tis  yet 
hidden  history  of  our  present  time  and  a  time  not  very  far 
fro'  th'  present,  doubt  not,  our  title  to  England's  throne 
must  soone  bee  known. 

Althoug'  a  life,  no  other  then  our  mother's,  removi'g 
our  naturall  claym  yet  another  degre,  must  keepe  us  still 
subject  to  the  uncertaine  duratio'  as  well  as  the  fortune  of 
one  other  being  beside  our  owne  selfe,  we  have  faith  in  our 
sire,  who,  whilst  now  hee  loveth  his  peace,  and  quiet  enjoie- 
ment  of  th'  roiall  kindnese  soe  much  no  love  of  his  offspring 
is  manifest,  hath  in  his  naturall  spirit  that  which  yet  might 
leade  to  a  matching  of  a  roiall  spouse  'gainst  the  princes, 
that  a  ballance  may  be  maintayned.  Hee  is,  it  wil  no 
doubt  bee  remembered,  the  Lord  Robert  Dudley,  Earle  of 
Leister,  whom  our  historic  so  oft  nameth.  Hee  who  beareth 
likewise  the  titles  of  Baron  of  Denbigh,  Master  of  th' 
Queene's  Majestie's  Horse (s),  of  th'  Order  of  th'  Garter, 
her  Highnesse'  Privie  Councilour,  et  csetera,  in  affec- 
tio'  nor  in  honours  no  way  doth  see  a  lacke  on  the  part  of  a 
woman,  who,  in  ascending  the  English  throne,  did,  like  a 
common  may  den  of  her  realme,  hide  those  secret  counsells 
in  her  owne  f aire  bosome.  Aye,  few  ghest  that  her  suitour 
was  her  wedded  lord. 

In  truth,  had  not  our  farre  seeing  sire  exercised  more 
then  the  degree  that  was  his  wont,  or  his  privilege,  of  au- 


10  BI-LITERAL  CYPHER  OF  FRANCIS  BACON 

thoritie,  Elizabeth  had  rested  contente  with  th'  marriage 
ceremony  perform'd  in  the  Tower,  and  would  not  have 
asked  for  regall,  or  even  noble  pompe — with  attendants  and 
witnesses;  nor  would  she  have  wish'd  for  more  state,  be- 
cause being  quite  bent  upon  secrecy,  she  with  no  want  of 
justice  contended,  ''The  fewer  eyes  to  witnesse,  the  fewer 
tongues  to  testify  to  that  which  had  beene  done." 

As  hath  beene  said,  Earle  of  Leicester  then  foresaw 
the  daye  when  he  might  require  the  power  this  might  grant 
him,  and  no  doubt  this  proved  true,  altho'  we,  th'  first- 
bome  Sonne  of  the  secret  union,  have  profited  by  no  meanes 
therfrom, — since  we  unfortunately  incurred  his  great  and 
most  rancourous  ill  will,  many  yeares  backe.  As  you  no 
doubt  are  cognisant  of  our  summarie  banishment  to  beau- 
tiful! France,  which  did  intend  our  correction  but  oped  to 
us  the  gates  of  Paradise,  you  know  that  our  sire,  more  ev'n 
then  our  roiall  mother,  was  bent  upon  our  dispatch  thither, 
and  urg'd  vehemently  that  subseque't,  artfuUie  contriv'd 
business — concerning  affaires  of  state — intrusted  to  us  in 
much  th'  same  manner,  we  thought,  as  waighty  affaires 
were  laid  upon  Sir  Amyas,  with  whom  they  sent  us  to  th' 
French  Court. 

By  some  strange  Providence,  this  served  well  the  pur- 
poses of  our  owne  heart ;  for,  making  cyphares  our  choyse, 
we  straightway  proceeded  to  spend  our  greatest  labours 
therein,  to  find  a  methode  of  secret  communication  of  our 
historic  to  others  outside  the  realme.  That,  however,  drew 
noe  suspition  upon  this  device,  inasmuch  as  it  did  appeare 
quite  naturall  to  one  who  was  in  companie  and  under  the 
instruction  of  our  ambassadour  to  the  Court  o'  France ;  and 
it  seemed,  on  th'  part  of  our  parents,  to  afford  peculiar 
relief,  as  shewing  that  our  spirit  and  minde  had  calmed,  as 
the  ocean  after  a  tempest  doth  sinke  into  a  sweete  rest,  nor 
gives  a  signe  of  th'  shippewracke  belowe  the  gently  roUi'g 
surface. 


IN  PLANETOMACHIA.  11 

For  such  simple  causes  were  we  undisturb'd  in  a 
search  after  a  meanes  of  transmitting  our  secret  history. 
Fayli'g  this — as  no  doubt  our  discjpherer  doth  know,  fere 
nowe — we  devised  this  double  alphabet  Cyphar  which  with 
patience  may  be  discovered,  with  another  having  within 
the  body  the  keies  to  separate  it  into  parts,  that  it  may  be 
joined  by  our  lawe  and  come  forth  in  that  forme  which  first 
it  bore  under  our  hand.  Thus  shal  we  see  our  work  arise, 
as,  in  the  Judgement  Day,  the  soules  that  death  set  free  shall 
rise  again  in  their  celestiall  bodies,  such  as  they  were  first 
created,  or  as  they  existed  in  the  thought  of  God ;  and  as  the 
glory  of  the  terrestriall  is  different  from  th'  glorie  of  the 
celestiall,  so  the  beauties  of  the  one  shall  not  be  as  th'  other. 
It  hath  beene  our  practise,  from  th'  first  Cyphar  epistle  to 
th'  present  letter,  to  scatter  th'  history  widely,  having  great 
feare  alwaies  that  our  roiall  mother  may,  by  some  ill- 
chance,  come  upo'  the  matter,  and  our  life  bee  the  forfeit 
ere  half  this  labour  bee  ended.  Should  she  laie  hand  upon 
the  epistle,  no  eie  save  her  owne  would  evermore  read  this 
interiour  history.  Where  our  Cyphar  shiftes  with  sud- 
dennes,  our  decypherer  needeth  more  patience. 

'  FRA.  B. 


A  TKEATISE  OF  MELANCHOLY.      1586. 

T.   BRIGHT. 

Verily,  to  make  choyse  of  mouthpeeces  for  our  voice, 
is  farre  fro'  being  a  light  or  pleasi'g,  but  quite  necessarie 
and  important,  missio' ;  and  it  oft  in  truth  swaloweth  all  we 
receive  from  our  writtings  ere  such  cost  be  paid.  None 
must  thinke,  however,  that  this  doth  moove  us  to  forego  th' 
worke.  Eather  would  a  slowly  approaching  death  bee 
desir'd,  or  haste'd  to  summo'  us  quicklie,  then  that  we  now 
weaken  in  our  great  undertaki'g  of  writing  out, — in  our 


12  BI-LITERAL  CYPHER  OF  FRANCIS  BACON. 

secrete  but  plajne  manner  of  transmitti'g, — our  history,  as 
hath  here  bene  sayd  in  our  other  Cjphar ;  also  a  most  full 
and  compleat  storie  of  this  so-styl'd  maiden  queene,  her 
marriage,  when  prisonner  at  the  Tower  at  command  o' 
Queene  Mary,  and  her  prior  mad  love  profess'd  for  Sey- 
mour, a  man  manie  a  yeare  elder  yet  not  greatly  wiser  then 
th'  willf  ull  princesse. 

The  early  piety,  that  manie  credulou'  men  attempt  to 
proove,  is  most  disprov'd  by  so  unnecessary  intemperance, 
wantonnesse,  and  over  vehemence  of  affection,  betrai'd 
towards  a  gentleman  olde  enough,  if  vertuoslie  inclined,  to 
guide  a  young  princesse  to  piety,  when  in  her  co'fide'ce, — 
for  sundry  thi'gs  come  with  experie'ce, — rather  the'  give 
her  greefe,  or  future  sorrow,  never  asswag'd  on  earth. 
Friendshippe  alone  should  binde  a  man's  mind  strongly, 
that  he  curbe  well  his  inordinate  concupiscence  and  sin. 

He,  by  disownei'g  the  child,  subjected  the  princely 
heart  to  ignominie,  and  co'pelled  Elizabeth  to  murder  this 
infant  at  the  very  first  slight  breath,  least  she  bee  openly 
sham'd  in  Court,  inasmuch  as  King  Edward  was  intoUer- 
ant  of  otheres  foibles,  whilst  partiall  to  his  owne. 

This  sad  narrative  is  in  the  other  Cyphar.  It  could  not 
bee  at  once  incorporated,  because  the  parts  should  not  bee 
plact  near  to  one  another.  It  must  be  quickly  seene,  there- 
fore, it  was  needfuU  to  commingle  manie  stories  in  one 
booke,  i^^one  having  beene  finish'd  at  this*  time,  the  faith- 
full  decypherer  is  most  solemnlie  enjoin'd  to  follow  th'  one 
he  can  worke  out  at  once,  because  it  hath  manifold  instruc- 
tions for  Cyphar  writing,  which  should  doubtlesse  be  of 
great  use  in  a  future  work  of  a  sorte  much  unlike  anything 
hee  hath  yet  seene. 

It  is  undoubtedly  possible  so  to  write  anything  what- 
soever, that  any  who  hath  sufficient  witte,  join'd  with  as 
great  a  measure  of  patience,  may  work  out  th'  hidden  his- 


*Second  Ed.,  published  same  year. 


IN  A  TREATISE  OF  MELANCHOLY.  13 

torie  without  other  directions  then  he  heerein  may  duly 
finde.  We  have  in  our  idole  times  amused  and  likewise 
well  assured  ourselfe  of  our  inve'tion,  of  which  wee  most 
frequently  speake,  by  ourselfe  working  from  our  published 
worke,  that  which  formerly  bore  other  names,  th'  some- 
times weak  yet  not  unworthy  portio's  translated  from  noble 
Homer,  his  poemes,  or  great  Virgill's  verse.  By  such 
maner  of  finding  parts  of  the  hidden  stories,  this  contri- 
vance is  very  constantlie  in  emploiement,  and  all  our  future 
discypherer's  difiiculties,  by  prevision,  made  lesse,  so  that 
he  should  not,  in  th'  midst  of  his  work,  in  wearinesse  turne 
backe. 

In  many  workes — such  as  the  poemes  at  present  sup- 
pos'd  to  belong  to  Spenser  and  Greene — the  discypherer 
wil  see  portions  of  a  secret  storie  chieflie  co'cerning  our 
lovely  Marguerite  of  jSTavarre,  Queene  of  that  realme  and 
our  heart.  Love  of  her  had  power  to  make  the  Duke  of 
Guise  forget  the  greatest  honours  that  France  might  confer 
upon  him ;  and  hath  power  as  wel  to  make  all  such  fleeting 
glory  seeme  to  us  like  dreames  or  pictures,  nor  can  wee 
name  ought  reall  that  hath  not  origin  in  her.  At  one  time 
a  secret  jealousy  was  consta'tlie  burning  in  our  vains,  for 
Duke  Henry  then  follow'd  her  day  in  and  out,  but  she  hath 
given  us  proof  of  love  that  hath  now  sette  our  hart  at  rest 
on  th'  qugery. 

FRANCIS,  PRINCE  0'  WALES. 


EUPHUES— MOKA^TDO.     1587. 

ROBERT    GREENE. 

Happie  th'  man,  who,  wearing  in  humble  life  a  crowne 
such  as  the  Jew^es  of  former  dayes  platted  for  th'  Christ, 
must  win  later  the  much  priz'd  golden  rigoU  which  is  worne 
by  mortall  men  who  are  blest.  Shut  our  eyes  we  cannot. 
A  hand  upon  th'  heart  would  not  crush  out  the  life,  as  doth 


14  BI-LITERAL  CYPHER  OF  FRANCIS  BACON 

feare  that  we  may  fail  to  win  our  proper  crowne  though  th^ 
Queene  be  our  *mother. 

Dailie  we  see  cause  of  this  co'stantlie  increasing 
dread,  in  the  favour  shewne  to  our  brother  rather  than  to 
ourself e,  despite  the  prioritie  of  our  clayme  to  all  princelie 
honour.  And  th'  frenzied  eagernes  hee  doth  bewray, — 
when  these  shews  and  vauntlinglie  marked  favours,  give 
co'firmatio'  strong  as  proofes  o'  Holie  Writ  of  our  wise- 
dome, — maketh  us  to  inquire  sadly  of  our  owne  hart 
whether  our  brother  returneth  our  warm  affection.  The 
love  we  beare  him  is  as  fresh  at  this  day,  as  it  was  in  his 
boyhoode,  when  the  relationship  was  for  some  time  so 
carefully  kept  unknown — as  th'  fact  was,  for  yeares, 
guarded  of  our  high  birth  and  station.  ISTot  a  thought  then 
enter'd  th'  brain,  that  it  was  not  a  ple'sure  for  us  both  to 
share.  Our  joies  were  thus  two-fold,  our  sorrowes  all  cut 
in  twaine ;  but  th'  pride  of  his  heart  having  beene  aroused, 
our  eies  can  but  note  th'  change,  for  hee  seldom  doth  keep 
the  former  waies  in  remembrance.  Even  in  his  manner 
now,  we  thinke,  one  thought  hath  a  voyce:  "Without  a 
brother  like  ours  that  hath  come  before  us  by  sixe  short 
yeares,  we  could  rely  whoUie  upon  ourselfe,  and,  further- 
more, bee  th'  heyre  to  England's  throne."  ^Nothing  soe 
open,  so  unmistakeable ;  but  at  times  he  maketh  a  great 
shew,  stranger  to  our  heart  then  the  colde  ungracious 
manner. 

When  this  spirit  of  kindnes  is  felt  noe  more — ^when 
this  shall  be  lost — th'  minde  can  furnish  few  thoughtes, 
wrought  thro'  pain,  from  mem'ries  of  th'  past  houres  o'  joy, 
to  comforte  and  console  it.  Whe'  th'  heart  hath  suffer'd 
change,  and  a  breach  beginneth  to  widen,  noe  wordes  fill  it 
up.  An  altred  affection,  one  weakly  parteth  from,  of  neede, 
— for  noe  redresse  is  suitable. 


*Morando. 


IN  MORANDO.  15 

The  chiefe  cause  nowe  of  the  uneasinesse  is,  however, 
the  questio'  that  hath  risen  regarding  these  plots  of  Mary, 
and  those  of  th'  olde  faith — a  question  of  Elizabethe's 
clajme  to  the  throne,  and  therefore,  likewise,  our  owne. 
With  everyone  whose  aime  putteth  him  very  seldom  to 
blush,  in  heart,  we  desire  onelie  that  this  supreme  right 
shall  bee  also  supreme  power.  This  doth  more  depende 
upon  some  work  of  Henries,  then  this  secret  royale  espousall 
wee  mention  oft.  Hence  a  wish  that  is  not  perhaps  un- 
worthie  in  us,  under  such  peculiar  circumstances  surround- 
ing not  only  ourself  e  but  our  brother,  to  write  another  his- 
tory. 

F.  B. 


PERIMEDES— PAI^DOSTO.     1588. 

ROBERT   GREENE. 

Til  other  writings  have  bene  finish'd,  you  cannot  carry 
out  the  wish  we  doe  so  frequentlie  utter,  that  the  deciph- 
erer shall  take  up  a  grave  taske — that  of  writing  againe  a 
historic  that  shal  be  as  strange  as  one  in  a  suspitious  drama 
not  claiming  to  be  narrative  save  of  a  fayned  storie.  'Tis, 
however,  true  in  everie  circumstance — as  true  as  truth. 
Our  heart  is  almost  bursting  with  our  indignation,  grief, 
and  sorrowe ;  and  wee  feel  our  penne  quivering,  as  a  steed 
doth  impatientlie  stand  awaiting  an  expected  note  of  the 
home  o'  the  hunt,  ere  darti'g,  as  an  arrowe  flies  to  the  targe, 
across  moor  and  glen.  We  write  much  in  a  feverous  long- 
ing to  live  among  men  of  a  future  people.  Here  in  the 
Court,  th'  story  is  but  as  th'  tale  that  the  olde  wives  tell  as 
they  sit  in  comfort  by  the  fire — tho'  it  be  tolde  as  truth, 
seldome  accredite'.  It  is  ofttimes  repeeted,  yet  is  as  fre- 
quently waived ;  for  'tie  as  dangerous  sorte  of  speech  as  can 


16  BI-LITERAL  CYPHER  OF  FRANCIS  BACON. 

come  within  th'  compasse  of  faithful  courtiers'  intercourse. 
'Twould  show  ill,  if  publisht  so  that  all  within  reach  might 
know  it,  besides  costing  our  life,  altho'  it  is  truth  itself. 
Manifestly  the  truth  is  now  da'gerous  and  should  bee  con- 
ceal'd.    Rex  you  must  know  to  be  our  future  title. 

F.,  PR.  OF  W. 


SPANISH  MASQUERADO.     EDITIONS  1589. 

ROBERT  GREENE. 

Turn  to  a  booke  entitul'd  Alcida,  a  Metamorphosis, 
befo'  you  decipher  that  most  interesting  Tale  of  Troie, 
lately  written  to  make  a  piece  suited  to  our  translatio'  of  th' 
divine  workes  of  Homer,  Prince  of  Poetes,  and  also  of 
noble  Virgin,  co'ceal'd  in  cyphars.  Thinking  to  be,  by  a 
waie  of  our  devising,  able  to  write  the  secret  story  so  that  it 
may  in  a  time  not  f  arre  off  acquaint  many  of  our  people 
with  our  true  name,  we  also  do  ask,  (in  al  of  our  work  we 
publish  under  names  that  be  almost  trite)  that  every  arte 
bee  used  to  take  th'  Cyphre  out.  Works  o'  Homer,  printed, 
cannot  go  to  oblivion;  and  if  our  carefuU  planne  preserve 
those  rich  gemmes,  it  shal  build  our  owne  moniment  of  that 
which  shall  outlast  all  els,  and  make  our  name  at  least 
reflect  the  glorie,  that  must — as  long  as  our  changing,  sub- 
tlie  altering  mother-tongue  endure — be  scene  af  arre. 

FR.,  PRINCE. 

Another  edition  of  above  printed  same  year. 

Turn  to  a  booke  entitul'd  Alcida,  a  Metamorphosis, 
befo'  you  decipher  that  milde  Tale  o'  Troy,  that  may,  truth 
to  say,  well  be  nam'd  a  cistur',  because  severall  riven  rockes 
yet  give  sacred  dewe  therto — verses  of  Homer  of  unmatch'd 
beautie ;  of  th'  prince,  soe  nam'd,  of  those  that  it  pleas'd  to 


IN  SPANISH  MASQUERADO.  17 

write  in  Latine,  Virgill ;  Petrarck  in  a  fine  line ;  or  Ennius, 
braving  daily  surly  critike  but  miraculouslie  kept  soe  free 
as  to  strike  all  with  dismaie.  Our  one  hope  of  leaving  our 
cipha'  historie  in  like  surrou'dinges,  you,  by  marking  soe- 
cal'd  joining  or  co'bining  keies,  doe  as  easily  unmask  as  we 
do  inve't  a  meanes  to  hide.  The  furtherance  of  our  much 
cherrish'd  plan,  keepeth  us  heartened  for  our  work,  making 
hope,  or  wish  even  of  immediate  recogniza'ce,  of  little  con- 
sequence beside  such  possible  renowne  as  might  bee  ours  in 
a  farre  off  age  thorow  our  i'vention.  When  first  our 
w^o'drous  Ciphar,  surging  up  in  the  minde,  ingu'ft  our 
nightly  thought,  th'  mind  far  out-ran  al  posi — (Incomplete 
— ^joins  with  some  other  work  not  yet  deciphered.) 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF 

ANNE  BOLEYN. 


J 


PEEFACE. 

The  Cipher  discoveries  in  some  of  the  literature  of  the 
Elizabethan  period,  as  set  forth  in  Francis  Bacons  Bi- 
literal  Cypher — a  book  recently  published  in  America  and 
England — are  most  strange  and  important.  To  those  not 
familiar  with  them,  a  few  words  are  requisite  for  an  under- 
standing of  the  methods  of  the  production  of  this  Cipher 
play — The  Tragedy  of  Anne  Boleyn. 

Two  principal  Ciphers  have  been  found  to  exist  in  the 
works  of  Bacon.  The  first,  the  Bi-literal,  by  the  use  of 
Italic  letters  in  different  forms,  concealed  the  rules  and 
directions  for  writing  out  a  second  of  greater  scope — a  so- 
called  Word  Cipher,  in  which  key  words  indicate  sections 
of  similar  matter,  that,  brought  together  in  a  new  sequence, 
tell  a  different  story.  Both  were  invented  by  Bacon  in  his 
youth.  The  primary,  or  Bi-literal  Cypher,  is  fully  ex- 
plained in  De  Augmentis  Scientiarum,  but  it  is  only  re- 
cently that  it  has  been  found  to  exist  in  the  Italic  printing 
of  a  number  of  the  books  of  the  Elizabethan  era — books 
ascribed  to  different  authors  but  now  proved  to  have  been 
written  by  Bacon. 

On  pages  following  are  extracts  from  the  Bi-literal  Cy- 
pher, as  published,  relating  in  the  words  of  the  inventoi* 
himself  the  manner  of  using  the  Key- Word  Cipher  for  the 
segregation  and  reconstruction  of  the  hidden  narratives, 
infolded  in  the  pages  as  originally  printed,  with  which  we 
are  familiar.  These  directions  are  fragmentary,  scattered 
through  many  of  the  books  deciphered,  and  are  many  times 
repeated  in  varying  forms  of  expression. 

The  more  important  only  are  here  gathered,  which,  with 
the  "Argument"  and  the  keys,  now"  given,  of  this  tragedy. 


II  PREFACE. 

will  outline  the  plan  of  this  work.  It  may  be  interesting  to 
know  that  the  use  of  the  key  words  is  progressive,  and  that 
a  small  number  only  are  used  at  one  time :  the  first  six  or 
seven  writing  the  prologue,  a  few  of  the  next  the  opening 
scenes  of  the  play,  and  so  on  through  the  entire  work,  some 
being  dropped  as  others  are  taken  up  successively  until  all 
have  been  used.  An  appendix  gives  the  book  and  page 
from  which  the  lines  are  taken  that  have  been  brought  to- 
gether as  the  "great  architect  or  master-builder  directed.'^ 

In  the  reconstruction,  especially  when  prose  is  changed 
to  verse,  the  order  of  the  words  is  slightly  changed  to  meet 
the  requirements  of  "rythmic  measure  in  the  Iambic." 
The  great  author  used  large  parts  of  many  scenes  in  two 
distinct  plays — open  and  concealed — now  and  then  with 
the  same  dramatis  personae,  again  with  others  clearly  indi- 
cated as  belonging,  historically,  to  these  particular  scenes. 
This  fact  may  jostle  our  ideas  somewhat,  as  we  find  new 
speakers  using  the  familiar  lines,  but  there  is  an  added 
interest,  when  the  transposition  gives  the  accuracy  of  his- 
tory to  the  beauty  of  dramatic  expression.  This  seems  the 
reverse  of  the  natural  order,  but  it  is  seeming  only,  for  the 
literary  world  became  acquainted  with  the  rewritten  plays 
three  centuries  before  the  hidden  originals  came  to  light. 

In  the  banquet  scene  of  this  tragedy,  the  fi^i'st  part  is 
almost  identical  with  that  of  Henry  Eighth,  although — 
when  "like  joins  like,"  something  from  Macbeth,  from 
Hamlet,  from  Romeo  and  Juliet,  etc.,  etc.,  is  added — 
while  other  diversions  of  that  festival  night  are  not  given 
openly  in  any  of  the  works.  The  handkerchief  scenes  of 
the  imagined  tragedy  of  Othello  belong  to  this  real,  but 
concealed,  tragedy  of  Anne  Boleyn,  and  the  accusations 
against  the  Queen  of  Sicilia  are  a  part  of  the  charge  against 
this  martyred  Queen ;  the  reply,  a  part  of  the  pathetic  but 
brave  response  she  made.  The  second  part  was  never  be- 
fore in  any  published  drama. 


PREFACE.  Ill 

It  would  seem  that  Bacon  learned  from  Cicero  the 
method  of  preparing  matter  which  could  with  slight  varia- 
tions be  adapted  to  more  than  one  purpose.  We  find  this 
in  the  Advancement  of  Learning  (1605,  p.  52). 

"And  Cicero  himself e,  being  broken  unto  it  by  great  ex- 
perience, delivereth  it  plainely ;  That  whatsoever  a  man 
shall  have  occasion  to  speake  of,  (if  he  will  take  the 
paines)  he  may  have  it  in  effect  premediate,  and  handled 
in  these.  So  that  when  hee  cometh  to  a  particular,  he  shall 
have  nothing  to  doe,  but  to  put  too  xs^ames  and  times,  and 
places;  and  such  other  Circumstances  of  Individuals.'' 

A  little  further  on  (p.  56),  is  an  instance  where  an  in- 
quiry about  the  tablets  in  Xeptune's  Temple  is  ascribed  to 
Diagoras,  while  in  the  Apothegms  this  same  question  is  put 
in  the  mouth  of  Bion.  And,  in  the  First  Folio  of  the 
Shakespeare  Plays,  a  very  marked  example  occurs  in  Romeo 
and  Jidiet. 

Romeo  speaking,  says : 

"The  gray  ey'd  morne  smiles  on  the  frowning  night, 
Checkring  the  Easterne  Clouds  with  streakes  of  light, 
And  darknesse  fleckel'd  like  a  drunkard  reeles, 
,    From  forth  dayes  pathway,  made  by  Titans  wheeles," 

Then  almost  immediately  after,  the  Friar  gives  the  same 
lines,  Avith  very  slight  but  distinctive  changes : 

"The  gray  ey'd  morne  smiles  on  the  frowning  night, 
Checkring  the  Easterne  Cloudes  with  streaks  of  light, 
And  fleckled  darknesse  like  a  drunkard  reeles. 
From  forth  daies  path,  and  Titans  burning  wheeles." 

The  modern  editors  cut  out  one  quatrain  as  a  supposed 
mistake,  the  decipherer  discovers  by  the  keys  and  joining- 
words  that  each  has  a  place — the  first  in  one  work,  and  the 
second  in  another. 

As  the  tragical  events  of  this  period  in  the  history  of  the 
ill-fated  queen,  now  knowm  to  be  Bacon's  ancestress,  have 


IV  PREFACE. 

little  by  little  unfolded  in  the  deciphering,  there  has  been  a 
deepening  sense  of  the  pathos  of  the  story.  Like  dissolving 
views  the  scenes  appear,  and  fade,  and  -this  mightiness 
meets  misery  so  soon  that  we  feel  the  shock.  There  is  the 
gentle  Anne's  appearance  at  the  banquet,  "when  King 
Henry  for  the  first  time  cometh  truely  under  the  spell  of 
her  beautie" — his  infatuation — his  determination  that 
nothing  should  stand  in  the  way  of  making  her  his  wife — 
the  divorce  from  Katherine — the  coronation — the  disap- 
proval of  the  people,  not  of  Anne  but  of  the  King — the  in- 
sulting song  at  the  coronation  festivities — the  birth  of 
Elizabeth,  Bacon's  mother,  and  the  King's  disappointment 
that  the  princess  was  not  a  prince.  Later  there  is  the 
King's  fickleness,  which  prompted  the  false  charges  against 
his  wife — the  mockery  of  the  trial — the  true  nobleness  of 
the  victim — the  injustice  of  her  condemnation — the  pa- 
thetic message  to  the  King,  as  she  was  led  to  the  scaffold — 
the  cruelty  of  her  execution. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  Bacon  felt  this  deeply,  nor  that 
"every  act  and  scene  is  a  tender  sacrifice,  and  an  incense  to 
her  sweet  memory." 

ELIZABETH  WELLS  GALLUP. 

Detroit,  November,  1901. 


FRANCIS  BACON'S  BI-LITERAL  CIPHER. 

INSTRUCTIONS  FOR  DECIPHERING  THE 
KEY-WORD  CIPHER. 

( Extracts  from  Bacon's  Bi-IAteral  Cypher. ) 

In  th'  beginning  our  Word  Cypher  is  such  as  will  be 
decipher'd  with  most  ease,  after  the  designe  shall  bee  fully 
seene,  and  the  entire  planne  well  learned.  It  was  in  use 
early.  .  .  .  The  hidden  history  extendeth  through  works 
of  numerous  designes  and  kinds  that  have  beene  put  out 
from  time  to  time  for  severall  yeeres.  All  workes  we  pub- 
lish'd  under  names,  have  some  parts  of  the  story,  for  our 
whole  Cypher  plan  doth  possesse  one  feature  much  to  be 
commended,  that  of  perfecte  safety.     .     .     .      (p.  110). 

This  Cyphar  will  make  the  Word  Cypher  more  plaine. 
....  It  is  our  most  importa't  Cypher,  having  th'  com- 
plete story  told  therein,  but  this,  also,  is  of  much  use  giving 
rules  and  instructions  to  aide  in  our  worke,  and  setti'g 
forth  th'  arguments  of  many  workes,  in  th'  bookes  wee  pub- 
lished in  divers  names.    .    .    .    (p.  111). 

It  may  bee  well  now  as  we  approach  the  end,  to  give 
summaries  of  th'  numerous  workes  which  he  will  find  in 
Cypher, — and  the  methodes  wee  have  us'd, — of  the  plays 
we  have  not  long  since  spoken  in  this  place  as  thirteene  in 
number, — five  of  which  are  nam'd  as  histories,  five  as  his- 
toricall  tragcedies,  three  as  comedies.  Of  all  these,  in  one 
work  or  another,  keies  and  arguments  may  bee  found  to 
aide  the  discypherer.  Th'  former  are  his  indispensable 
guides,  the  latter  ayde  him  greatly  to  re-build  these  broken, 
scattered  pallaces. 

Th'  histories  are  not  completed,  at  this  writing,  in  their 
exteriour  masque.  Comming  latelie  into  newe  honours 
and  newe  duties  wee  have,  as  may  be  suppos'd,  written 

V 


VI  INSTRUCTIONS  FOR  DECIPHERING 

much  lesse  then  formerly.  All  interiour  worke,  neverthe- 
lesse,  is  completed,  and  made  ready  for  th'  incorporation 
into  these  divers  works.    .    .    .    (p.  117). 

The  great  Cipher  spoken  of  soe  frequentlie, — tearm'd 
th'  most  importante  invention,  since  'tis  of  farre  greater 
scope, — shall  heere  bee  againe  explained.    .    .    .    (p.  118). 

Keyes  are  used  to  pointe  out  the  portions  to  be  used. 
These  keies  are  words  imploied  in  a  naturall  and  common 
waye,  but  are  mark'd  by  capitalls,  the  parenthese,  or  by 
frequent  and  unnecessarie  iteration.    .    .    . 

There  will,  with  a  little  observation,  bee  discerned  wordes 
which  are  repeatedly  used  in  the  same  connection.  These 
must  bee  noted  specially  since  they  form  our  series  of  com- 
bining or  joyning  wordes,  which  like  the  marks  th'  builder 
putteth  on  the  prepar'd  blockes  of  stone  shewing  the  place 
of  each  in  the  finisht  building,  pointe  out  with  unmistak- 
able distinctnes  its  relation  to  all  other  parts. 

As  whilst  writing  these  interior  works  these  keies  and 
joining-words  did  deter  th'  advancement,  it  shall  work  a 
contrarie  effecte  on  this  part  of  th'  designe,  and  th'  part  of 
our  ready  decypherer  is  made  easie  for  his  hand,  but  his 
sight  shal  accordinglie  have  neede  to  bee  as  th'  sight  of 
th'  keene-ey'd  eagle,  if  hee  would  hunt  this  out,  losing 
nothing.    .    .    .    (p.  119). 

For  other  workes  our  joyning-words  are  cleare,  or  those 
arguments  so  fully  given,  th'  discyphering  is  onely  a  mat- 
ter of  time  and  patience,  but  this  would  surely  not  be 
wanting  in  the  man  who  hath  worked  out  the  Bi-literall 
Cipher  that  doth  require  soe  much. 

In  many  places  will  there  bee  found  instruction  for  the 
discypherer  and  in  divers  waies,  so  that,  fayling  one,  he 
should  see  others,  as  hath  noe  doubt  beene  discov'r'd  since 
this  Bi-literall  Cypher  hath  made  everything  cleare,  shew- 
ing the  workes  that  joyne,  and  giving  ayde  as  often  as  it 
may  bee  requir'd.     The  designe,  however,  being  so  com- 


THE  KEY-WORD  CIPHER.  VII 

pleat  it  should  seeme  a  thing  that  men  of  keene  eyes  and 
quick  minde  may  discover  readily  and  pursue  with  ease. 

Of  my  devices  nothing  excells  that  of  th'  employment 
of  words  in  common  use  to  direct  our  decypherer.  Tables 
should  contavne  all  such  because  no  man's  memorie  can 
long  retayne  such  a  number  of  words ;  but  all  will  clearlie 
see  how  great  an  advantage  it  must  bee  to  bee  able  to 
masque  all  our  divers  pen  names  in  common  tearmes,  so 
naturallie,  that  not  a  man  of  common  intelligence  will  sus- 
pect the  presence  of  anything  of  a  secret  nature. 

The  preparation  and  distribution  of  th'  Cypher  wordes 
requir'd  much  time  and  this  time  was  soon  at  my  disposi- 
tion. Th'  numerous  works  that  will  be  sent  forth,  soone, 
will  prove  the  truth  of  my  assertion  of  a  ceaselesse  indus- 
try and  an  unflagging  zeale.  Xo  one  living  in  the  midst 
o'  th'  tumults  and  distractions  which  are  found  in  our  great 
townes  could  (could)  better  hold  to  a  purpose, — but  a  few 
years  younger,  in  truth,  then  I, — for  it  stirred  within  me 
when  I  first  was  told  of  my  great  birth,  and  tooke  forme 
shortly  after  that  scene  at  th'  Court  of  our  mother  which 
led  soe  quickly  to  my  be'ng  sent  to  France  in  th'  company 
and  care  of  Sir  Amyas  Paulet.  It  waighed  on  me  con- 
sta'tly,  untill  I  devis'd  a  waye  by  which  I  could  communi- 
cate this  strange  thing  to  th'  world,  as  you  know,  and  my 
restlesse  minde  unsatisfied  with  one  or  two  good  Cyphers, 
continually  made  triall  of  new  contrivances,  in  order  to 
write  the  true  story  fully,  that  wrongs  of  this  age  bee  made 
uright  in  another. 

As  my  work  hath  beene,  from  my  earlie  youth  untill  of 
late,  one  of  unflagging  intereste,  I  have  made  great  pro- 
gresse  in  Cypher-writing,  finding  it  pleasing  at  first, — I 
may  say  manie  times  mildlie  exciting.    .    .    .    (p.  121). 

Th'  directions  to  th'  decipherer  oft  occur,  for  it  cannot 
bee  that  hee  doth  decypher  everything  I  write,  yet  if  but  a 
part  be  done,  it  would  bee  sufficient,  doubtlesse,  to  reveale 


VIII  INSTRUCTIONS  FOR  DECIPHERING. 

th'  history;  but  I  must  strive  to  soe  double  th'  rules  as  I 
write,  tbat  no  failure  shall  bee  possible.    .    .    .    (p.  122). 

But,  truth  to  say,  severall  of  the  plays  that  I  am  about 
to  put  forth  are  yet  incomplete,  and  I  am,  too,  much  occu- 
pied with  a  work  on  the  life  of  my  m'ternall  great  grande- 
f  ather,  which  doth  include  most  of  my  Cypher  plaie,  The 
White  Rose  of  Brittaine.  Many  earlier  plaies  are  to  bee 
somewhat  alter'd  in  order  to  have  some  portiones  of  my 
historic  put  into  th'  Cypher.  'Tis  of  th'  great  key-word 
Cyphar  of  which  I  am  speaking,  chief  e  of  these  inve'tions, 
for  by  th'  use  of  it,  I  may  make  a  work  of  beautie,  as  you 
know,  while  some  of  these  being  of  such  [nature]  that 
they  are  not  easily  kept  in  minde  are  easily  overlookt  like 
the  way  of  ships  on  the  ocean.    .    .    .    (p.  125). 

Th'  cheef  e  of  all  my  inventions  is  the  key-word  Cypher. 
Therefore  I  wish  to  have  it  given  first,  and  most,  of  your 
time  after  this  worke  shall  have  come  to  an  end. 

Whilst  it  is  true  regarding  that  Cypher  of  which  I  speak, 
much  must  yet  be  written,  and  that  none  can  learn  how  to 
decypher  it  till  full  instructio's  may  bee  found, — I  am  giv- 
ing great  attention  to  th'  completion  of  severall  plays  that 
containe  all  th'  instructio's, — time  will  not  permit  the 
great  catalogue  to  swell  to  much  greater  proportio's;  but 
'tis  trulie  colossall  already,  and  doth  approove  my  tirelesse 
spirit.    ...    (p.  126). 

If  he  discov'r  the  key  of  my  newe  invention,  himselfe, 
before  it  bee  explain'd,  it  shall  redound  to  his  credit.  Much 
as  hath  beene  the  c^se  in  all  discoveries  worthy  of  note 
since  man's  creation,  this  may  furnish  him  soe  much  de- 
lighte,  whilst  it  doth  occupie  his  minde,  that  time  shall 
seeme  short.  In  my  History  of  Henry  Seventh  this  shall 
all  bee  explain'd. 

But  as  I  doe  not  accompte  th'  time  wasted  which  one 
may  soe  imploy,  soe  difficult  is  my  taske  of  publishing  my 
plays  under  th'  name  of  one  who  hath  departed, — manie 


THE  KEY-WOlyy  CIPHER.  IX 

being  out  already,  but  an  almost  equall  number  new, — that 
much  of  my  thought  in  leasure  houres  is  upon  the  questio' 
how  it  may  bee  done.  For  the  purposes  of  the  Cypher  it 
is  requir'd  that  no  alteratio'  be  made,  for  that  manner  that 
I  have  adopted  shewing  different  workes  by  common  words 
must  not  suffer  unnecessarie  change.  The  discipherer  will 
doubtlesse  need  all  the  assistance  which  can  thus  be  giv'n 
nor  could  I  now  so  alter  the  new,  without  making  a  corre- 
spo'sive  change  in  that  now  in  print, — a  thing  soe  nearly 
impossible  as  to  be  out  of  all  questio'.    .    .    .    (p.  12Y). 

I  thought  not,  however,  to  make  a  device  so  compleate 
as  my  most  worthy  Bi-literall  has  now  proven,  and  its  com- 
pletenesse  may  make  it  very  difficult  to  shew  forth  this 
designe  clearlie,  yet  at  the  same  time  guard  the  treasure 
that  it  keepes.  It  certaynly  requireth  as  much  wit  as  th' 
first  inventio',  though  much  lesse  pleasure  cometh  therein. 

It  is  so  much  in  my  minde  that  I  speak  thus  oft  about  it, 
and  take  my  decypherer  into  confidence,  as  it  were,  which 
doth  shewe  one  of  those  strange  weakenesses  of  soules  in- 
drawn, like  mine,  since  it  needeth  noe  proof e  of  the  fact 
that  a  demonstration  would  be  wholly  unnecessary  if  there 
were  anie  man  living  in  the  world  who  could  understand 
these  things  here  hidden;  but  I  speake  or  write  as  if  the 
discypherer  sat  at  my  side  to  take  part  when  requir'd  in  th' 
deliberatio's.  .  .  )  Many  times  I  have  a  sense  of  my 
kinde  companion's  presence,  yet  at  the  bottome  of  every 
other  desire,  is  a  hope  that  this  Cypher  shall  not  have  beene 
scene  or  read  when  my  summons  shall  come.  Therefore 
tranquillity  is  an  impossible  state,  and  I  am  torn  betwixt 
feare  that  it  bee  too  well  hid,  and  a  desire  to  see  all  my 
devices  for  transmitting  this  wondrous  history,  preserv'd 
and  beque'th'd  to  a  future  generatio',  undiscov'r'd.  .  .  . 
(p.  129). 

Indeed  he  is  to  me  a  friend  who  can  reach  out  his  hand 
across  the  abysm  of  the  ages,  and  give  such  aide  as  none 


X  INSTRUCTIO^tS  IIOR  DECIPHERING 

o 

present  hath  given,  or  iiT^friith  can  give  to  me,  in  labour 
of  wondrous  pow'r.    .    ,    .    (p.  131). 

Round  certaine  words  that  I  name  keyes,  one  cluster 
may  bee  seene  to  have  its  place  in  othe'  kinds  o'  worke.  T' 
aid  in  finding  keyes,  some  words  are  not  capitalized :  when- 
ere  a  fewe  such  are  repeated  frequentlie,  take  note  of  it  j 
and  our  design  will  take  its  proper  form  i'  th'  minde.  Let 
th'  wordes  in  parenthese'  next  be  found.  ]^.  B.  every 
time  such  seem  to  be  us'd  ad  libitu7n,  it  showeth  they  are 
keies.  Such  use  b'  capitalls  meaneth  that  this  pointeth  out 
th'  words  I  will  so  use.    ...    (p.  143). 

Proceed,  therefore,  in  this  manne'.  Seeke  near  each  key 
that  othe'  or  joining-word,  which  you  will  find  oft  repeated, 
and  bring  parts  together.    .    .    .    (p.  144). 

Plays  are  by  no  meanes  alwaies  verse,  therefore  have  I 
put  a  chain  linking  together  by  keies  my  speaches :  those 
in  Henry  Seventh,  are  now  many  lines  in  excesse ;  and  all, 
or  much,  upon  the  claiming  Henrie's  crowne  is  to  be 
altered.  You  will  finde  that  historic  repeats  itselfe  in  this, 
and  that  my  owne  story  here  given,  has  much  that  is  simi- 
lar to  the  claime  Warbeck  made,  yet  also  differing,  inas- 
much as  his  had  so  false  premises:  but  I  was  Elizabeth's 
son,  by  her  wedded  Lord,  elder  brother  to  Robert,  the 
Earle  of  Essex,  who  raised  a  rebellion  to  obtaine  his  owne 
mother's  kingdome,  despite  all  other  and  prior  rights. 
...    (p.  172). 

My  translations  are  many  times  emploied  twice.  If 
my  love  poems  may  but  show  this,  you  will  understa'd. 
In  the  Cypher  story,  inside  plays,  my  hidden  book  mask'd 
in  its  sentences  oftentimes  a  play,  or  story,  divided  more, 
that  it  may  forme  the  inmost  of  my  secret  epistles.    .    .    . 

My  first  importa't  letter  to  you  concerns  my  greatest 
invention  of  a  meanes  of  transmitting  whatsoever  I  wish  to 
share.    ...    (p.  181). 


THE  KEY-WORD  CIPHER.  XI 

Wlienere  this  story  in  Cipher  doth  push  ope  th'  sepul- 
ture door,  strip  the  clothes  and  napkins  which  would  con- 
fine it  from  offe  its  feet,  and  so  stepp  out  among  living 
human  beings,  my  inmost  heart  must  be  reveal' d,  open  as 
upon  God's  great  day  of  a  last  judgment.  Make  your 
work  as  the  voyce  that  shall  commande  it  to  rise,  stand 
forth,  and  tell  to  mankinde  its  secret  woe. 
(^  I  use  words  to  indicate  the  part  of  my  life  in  France, 
using  the  keyes  as  just  given  with  but  a  few  added,  such  as 
Paris,  France,  court,  Charles,  Henry.  Joyne  minde  or 
braine  (with  the  faculties),  also  spirit,  soule,  the  con- 
science with  heart,  and  the  other  words  signifying  affection, 
love,  hate,  envie,  antipathy  and  like  passio's.  In  example 
o'  it  turne  t'  Cymbeline,  actus  primus,  scena  secunda,  by 
(Queene)  see  (Love)  (Heart)  both  by  the  key-words  nam'd 
in  my  latest  list,  thus  setting  off  to  another  use  each  of  the 
sections  so  shewne.  So  ever  Marlow,  Peele,  Greene,  or 
aniething  which  doth  containe  the  storie  of  the  stay  in 
Margaret's  sunshinie  France.    .    .    .    (p.  183). 

As  some  of  the  plaies  are  histories  they  are  not  alwayes 
mentioned  as  dramas,  but  I  will  now  make  out  a  table  (i' 
Cipher)  naming  all  you  are  to  decypher.  There  are  five 
Histories  as  followes:  The  Life  o'  Elizabeth,  The  Life 
of  Essex,  The  White  Rose  o'  Britaine,  The  Life  and 
Death  of  Edward  Third,  The  Life  of  Henry  th'  Sevent; 
five  Tragedies:  Mary  Queene  o'  Scots,  Robert  th'  Earle 
o'  Essex,  (my  late  brother)  Robert  th'  Earle  o'  Leicester 
(my  late  father).  Death  o'  Marlowe,  Anne  BuUen;  three 
Comedies :  Seven  Wise  Men  o'  th'  West,  Solomon  th' 
Second,  The  Mouse-Trap. 

The  keies  and  th'  arguments  do  not  follow  at  this  point, 
but  are  given  elsewhere.  There  are  three  notable  Epics 
which  are  from  Greeke  (Homer)  and  that  Latine  (similar 
partly  in  theame)  of  great  Virgill ;  and  a  history,  in  prose 
commixt  with  verse,  of  England  and  a  fewe  Englishmen 


XII  INSTRUCTIONS  FOR  DECIPHERING 

whose  lives  in  greater  or  lesse  degree  affected  ours.    .    .    . 
(p.  202). 

A  work  of  such  magnitude  as  th'  Iliads  could  not  well 
bee  twice  given  in  Cypher,  but  many  o'  th'  other  writings 
are  repeated  in  principall  things,  preventing  by  this  device 
th'  entire  losse  in  case  others  shall  bee  destroy'd,  .  .  . 
(p.  204). 

At  first  my  plann  of  Cipher  w^ork  was  this:  to  shew 
secrets  that  could  not  be  publish'd  openly.  This  did  so 
well  succeed  that  a  different  (not  dangerous)  theme  was 
entrusted  to  it;  and  after  each  was  sent  out  a  newe  desire 
possess'd  me,  nor  left  me  day  or  night  untill  I  took  up 
againe  th'  work  I  love  so  fondly.    .    .    .    (p.  216). 

Finding  that  one  important  story  within  manie  others 
produc'd  a  most  ordinarie  play,  poem,  history,  essay,  law- 
maxime,  or  other  kind,  class,  or  description  of  work,  I 
tried  th'  experiment  of  placing  my  tra'slations  of  Homer 
and  Virgil  within  my  other  Cypher.  When  one  work  has 
been  so  incorporated  into  others,  these  are  then  in  like 
manner  treated,  separated  into  parts  and  widely  scatter'd 
into  my  numerous  books'.    .    .    . 

Seeke  it  out  by  carefull  attentio'  to  the  simple  rules 
which  pointe  your  course:  directions  shewe  each  part  of 
the  worke  so  fully,  (my  designe  is  so  farre  worked  out  in 
such  other  accompanying  Cyphers  as  best  will  teach  this 
invention)  that  the  unfolding  doth  seem  like  as  it  were 
o'  itselfe.  Indeed  you  may  write  meerelie  as  the  hired 
assista't  whose  worke  is  that  of  a  man's  hand,  or  penne, 
not  of  his  thought,  braine,  or  minde,  inasmuch  as  my 
thought  has  inform'd  every  portion,  as  the  minde  doth  the 
bodie. 

At  no  time  shal  your  appearance  in  mine  emploie  bee 
deem'd  anie  otherwise  then  that  of  an  'amanuensis,  yet, 
sir,  all  dues  of  honour  shal  be  yours,  in  this  and  the  com- 


THE  KEY-WORD  CIPHER.  XIH 

ing  ages,  since  it  is  wholly  by  this  means  that  the  greatest 
fhings  of  this  age  can  be  revealed.    ...    (p.  341). 

My  word-signs  are  scatt'red  with  most  prodigall  hand, 
not  onely  in  the  prose,  but  also  in  the  diverse  other  workes. 
In  many  places  you  may  iinde  them  named  as  joyning- 
wordes,  this  manner  shewing  their  use,  which  is  to  bring 
parts  together.  You  must  likewise  keep  in  minde  one 
very  important  rule:  it  is,  that  like  must  be  joyn'd  to  like. 
Match  each  key  with  words  of  a  like  meaning,  like  nature, 
or  like  origin.  These  are  sometimes  called,  in  many  prose 
pamphlets  and  th'  workes  of  philosophy  or  science,  con- 
jugates, connaturalls  and  similars  or  parallels.    .    .    . 

My  table  of  keyes  by  which  each  of  the  many  workes 
were  prepared,  you  may  have  found  while  making  out 
this  Cypher ;  they  have  beene  placed  in  most  of  my  books, 
but  in  manifolde  wayes,  as  well  as  in  many  places,  in 
order  that  my  Cipher  story  of  mine  earliest  yeeres,  be 
not  writen  while  I  stay  in  this  land  of  my  birth  and  right- 
full  inheritance.  It  is  for  this  cause  that  little  of  your 
subject  ftiatter  occupies  one  space,  your  numerous  instruc- 
tions so  widely  dispersed,  nothing  given  with  any  due  con- 
cern as  to  sequence,  changes  (often  unexpected)  from  one 
place  to  another,  with  much  other  and  entir'ly  foraine 
matter  introduced  to  make  this  to  appeare  principall  in 
the  intention.    .    .    .    (p.  346). 

There  is  a  play  in  some  of  my  prose  works,  in  Cypher, 
of  great  worth,  entitl'd  The  White  Rose  o'  Britaine.  It 
hath  as  principall  actors,  names  verie  familiar.  Historic, 
related  events,  and  out  of  many  papers  which  th'  times 
render  of  importance,  I  have  made  a  play.  The  parts  con- 
cerning my  maternall  great-grandsire,  who  as  you  no 
doubt  have  learned  before  this  was  King  Henry  Seventh, 
and  also  much  o'  that  that  doth  chiefly  concern  his  thorne, 
that  Perkin  (or  as  it  is  often  written  elsewhere,  Peterkin) 
Warbeck,  and  the  gentle  wife,  whom  the  king  so  gallantly 


XIV  INSTRUCTIONS  FOR  DECIPHERING 

nain'd  White  Rose  o'  Britaine,  will  be  found  in  the  his- 
toric of  his  raigne.  The  remaining  portions  are  put  ifi 
my  Essays,  in  my  Advancement  of  Learning,  the  Anatomy 
of  Melancholy,  and  portions  of  such  plays  as  naturallie 
treat  of  affaires  of  State. 

It  shall  give  many  a  portion  of  my  history,  for  my 
owne  case  is  of  the  same  nature  as  Perkin's,  but  my  claime 
was  just,  his  built  on  thin  aire.  In  this  play  you  heare  the 
chaf 'd  lion's  sullen  roare,  and  though  the  scenes  have  their 
proper  place  in  the  history  of  Henry  the  Seventh's  time, 
manie  of  them  will  be  found  to  relate  other  things  of  an 
after  time.  If  you  keepe  my  life  and  its  rude  tumults  in 
minde,  this  play  that  seemeth  to  relate  such  events  in  the 
reigne  [of  J  this  most  mighty  king,  shall  portray  many  a 
scene  in  that  of  Elizabeth,  my  owne  royall  parent.  .  .  . 
(p.  354). 

It  is  prose  chiefely.  Th'  parts  which  I  intended  to  have 
versified  doe  make  up  such  ah  important  part  of  that  great 
historic  th'  taske  would  have  bin  a  difficile  one,  yet  in 
manie  written  at  an  earlier  date  I  have  some  large*  portions 
in  both  forms.  This  hath  made  my  owne  Avork  greater, 
but  hath  in  nowise  made  my  decypherer's  lesse,  inasmuch 
as  the  changes  had  againe  to  be  made  by  himselfe  while 
engaged  in  the  decyphering,  but  vice  versa.  In  example, 
if  I  have  made  the  interio'  epistle  poetrie  and  the  exterior 
not  soe,  hee  must  versifie,  but  if  th'  interiour  be  in  prose 
and  the  exterior  in  verse  his  taske  is  light ;  if  both  be  the 
same  it  is  easy  both  to  read  and  write. 

The  keies  will  not  be  given  untill  th'  history  mentioned 
be  finish'd  but  when  he  doth  see  the  name  o'  Ladie 
Kath'rine  Gordon  in  any  of  my  workes,  he  may  know  that 
I  speake  of  her, — th'  daughter  of  a  nobleman  of  Scotland, 
mine  Earle  o'  Huntley, — by  King  Henry  th'  Sevent  named 
White  Rose  of  Brittaine,  giving  to  her  beautie  th'  title 
assum'd  by  her  husband,  th'  pretended  Duke  o'  Yorke. 


THE  KEY  WORD  CIPHER.  XV 

She  was  in  truth  verie  sweete  and  faire  in  forme  and 
feature,  gracing  the  name  hee,  dishonouring,  speedilie  lost. 
Her  wifely  devotion  to  th'  false  Duke,  hath  made  many 
tender  and  most  saddening  scenes  in  the  play.  It  winneth, 
also,  much  love  and  honor,  and  a  wondering  admiration, 
her  heart  shewing  great  strength  and  constancy.  .  .  . 
(p.  98). 

I'  th'  King  Henry  the  Seventh  you  shall  finde  some  por- 
tions to  co'plete  that  plaie,  but  King  Henry  Eight  is  also 
requir'd,  with  Richard.  Of  most  historicall  plays  note 
one  mark'd  pointe  or  feature.  Some  likenesse  or  paralell 
is  to  bee  observed  in  them,  also  th'  events  of  one  raigne 
seeme  link'd  to  those  of  time  that  precedeth  or  doth  fol- 
lowe,  as  scene  in  such  as  I  have  sent  forth  from  time  t' 
time,  for  the  purposes  of  my  Cypher.    .  '  .    .    (p.  99). 

Th'  play,  of  which  I  have  given  the  title,  is  not  soe 
pleasing  as  it  might  be  with  sweete  Katherine  Gordon's 
love  scenes,  and  th'  Duke's  happy  songs  of  the  gaiety  of 
th'  princely  Court  of  England,  but  since  all  this  may  be 
scene  to  be  a  part  of  another  play,  it  will  bee  thought  well 
when  completed  that  I  robb  Henry  th'  Sevent  to  add  a 
grace  to  my  White  Rose.  Of  this  I  leave  posteritie  to 
judge,  confident  of  th'  decision  whe'  they  shall  both  bee 
discyphered.    ...    (p.  100). 


(Note.)  This  is  the  third  of  the  Tragedies,  mentioned  in  the 
Catalogue,  which  has  been  deciphered  by  the  Key-Word  Cipher. 
The  Tragedy  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  The  Tragedy  of  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots,  deciphered  by  Dr.  O.  W.  Owen,  and  also  The  Spanish 
Armada,  form  a  part  of  the  series  heretofore  published  as 
Francis  Bacon^s  CipJier  Story. 


APtGUMEXT  OF  THE  PLAY. 

As  may  bee  well  knowne  unto  you,  tli'  questio'  of  Eliza- 
beth, her  legitimacie,  made  her  a  Protestant,  for  the  Pope 
had  not  recognis'd  th'  union,  tho'  it  were  royale,  which  her 
sire  made  with  f  ayre  Anne  Boleyn.  Still  we  may  see  that 
despite  some  restraining  feare,  it  suited  her  to  dallie  with 
the  question,  to  make  a  faint  shew  of  settling  the  mater  as 
her  owne  co'scie'ce  dictated,  if  we  take  th'  decisions  of 
facts ;  but  the  will  of  th'  remorse-tost  king  left  no  doubt 
in  men's  minds  concerning  th'  former  marriage,  in  fact,  as 
th'  crowne  was  giv'n  first  to  Mary,  his  daughter  of  that 
marriage,  before  commi'g  to  Elizabeth. 

In  th'  storie  of  my  most  infortunate  grandmother,  the 
sweet  ladie  who  saw  not  th'  headsman's  axe  when  shee 
went  forth  proudly  to  her  coronation,  you  shall  read  of  a 
sadnesse  that  touches  me  neere,  partlie  because  of  neere- 
nesse  in  bloud,  partlie  from  a  firme  beliefe  and  trust  in 
her  innocencie.  Therefore  every  act  and  scene  of  this  play 
of  which  I  speake,  is  a  tende'  sacrifice,  and  an  incense  to 
her  sweete  memorie.  It  is  a  plea  to  the  generations  to 
come  for  a  just  judgement  upon  her  life,  whilst  also  giving 
the  world  one  of  the  noblest  o'  my  plays,  hidden  in  Cy'hre 
in  many  other  workes. 

A  short  argument,  and  likewise  th'  keies,  are  giv'n  to 
ayde  th'  decypherer  when  it  is  to  be  work'd  out  as  I  wish. 
This  doth  tell  th'  story  with  sufficient  clearnes  to  guide  you 
to  our  hidden  storie. 

This  opeth  at  th'  palace,  when  King  Henry  for  the 
first  time  cometh  truely  under  the  spell  of  her  beautie, — 
then  in  th'  highest  perfection  of  dainty  grace,  fresh,  un- 
spoiled,— and   the   charme   of   youthlie   manners.      It  is 

XVII 


XVIII  ARGUMENT. 

thought  this  was  that  inquisition  which  brought  out  feares 
regarding  th'  marriage  contracted  with  Katharine  of  Arra- 
gon,  so  that  none  greatly  wond'red  whe'  prolonged  consul- 
tation of  the  secret  voyce  in  his  soule  assur'd  the  questioner 
noe  good  could  ever  come  from  the  union.  Acti'g  upon 
this  conviction  he  doth  confer  money  and  titles  upon  his 
last  choise  to  quiet  objections  on  score  of  unmeetnes. 

But  tho'  an  irksome  thing,  truth  shall  be  told.  Tho'  it 
be  ofttimes  a  task,— if  selfe-imposed,  not  by  any  meanes 
th'  lesse,  but  more  wearisome,  since  the  work  hath  noe 
voyce  of  approvall  or  praise, — I  intend  its  completion.  For 
many  simple  causes  th'  historic  of  a  man's  life  cometh 
from  acts  that  we  see  through  stayned  glasse  darkelie,  and 
of  th'  other  sexe,  a  man  doth  perceyve  lesse,  if  possible, 
but  th'  picture  that  I  shall  heere  give  is  limn'd  most  care- 
fully. However  m'  pen  hath  greatly  digress'd,  and  to 
returne. 

Despite  this  mark  of  royall  favour,  a  grave  matter  like 
the  divorcement  of  a  royall  spouse  to  wed  a  maide,  suited 
not  with  fayre  Anne's  notions  of  justice,  and  with  a  sweete 
grace  she  made  answere  when  the  King  sued  for  favour : — 
"I  am  not  high  in  birth  as  would  befit  a  Queene,  but  I  am 
too  good  to  become  your  mistresse."  So  there  was  no  waye 
to  compasse  his  desires  save  to  wring  a  decree  out  o'  th' 
Pope  and  wed  th'  maide,  not  a  jot  regarding  her  answer 
unlesse  to  bee  the  more  eager  to  have  his  waye. 

Th'  love  Lord  Percy  shew'd  my  lady,  although  so 
frankly  return'd,  kept  the  wish  turning,  turning  as  a  rest- 
less mill.  Soone  he  resolv'd  on  proof  of  his  owne  spirit,  doe 
th'  Pope  how  he  might,  and  securing  a  civill  decree,  pri- 
vately wedded  th'  too  youthf ull  Anne,  and  hid  her  for  space 
of  severall  dales  untill  th'  skies  could  somewhat  cleare ;  but 
when  th'  earlie  sumer  came,  in  hope  that  there  might 
soone  bee  borne  to  them  an  heyre  of  th'  desir'd  kinde, 


OF  THE  PLAY.  XIX 

order'd  willinglie  her  coronation  sparing  noe  coste  to  make 
it  outvie  anie  other. 

And  when  she  was  borne  along,  surrounded  by  soft 
white  tissew,  shielded  bj  a  canopie  of  white,  whilst  she  is 
wafted  onwards,  you  would  say  an  added  charme  were  to 
paint  the  lillie,  or  give  the  rose  perfume. 

This  was  onely  th'  beginning  of  a  triumph,  bright  as 
briefe, — in  a  short  space  'twas  ore.  Henry  chose  to  con- 
sider th'  infant  princesse  in  the  light  of  great  anger  of  a 
just  God  brought  upon  him  for  his  sinnes,  but  bearing  this 
with  his  daring  spirit,  he  compelleth  the  Actes  of  Suprem- 
acy and  Succession,  which  placed  him  at  the  head  of  the 
Church  of  England,  in  th'  one  case,  and  made  his  heires 
by  Queene  Anne  th'  successours  to  th'  throne.  Untill  that 
time,  onely  male  heyres  had  succeeded  to  th'  roiall  power 
and  the  act  occasioned  much  surprise  amongst  our  nobilitie. 

But  Henry  rested  not  the'.     The  lovelinesse  of  Anne 

and  her  natural  opennesse  of  manner,  so  potent  to  winne 

th'  weake  heart  o'  th'  King,  awaken'd  suspition  and  much 

cruell  jealousie  when  hee  saw  th'  gay  courtiers  yielding  to 

th'  spell  of  gracefuU  gentility, — heighten'd  by  usage  for- 

rayn,  as  also  at  th'  English  Court.     But  if  truth  be  said, 

th'  fancy  had  taken  him  to  pay  lovi'g  court  unto  the  faire 

Jane  Seymour,  who  was  more  beautiful!,  and  quite  young, 

— but  also  most  ordinary  as  doth  regard  personal!  manner, 

and  th'  qualitie  that  made  th'  Queene  so  pleasing, — Lady 

Jane  permitting  marks  of  gracious  favour  t'  be  freelie 
offered. 

And  the  Queene,  unfortunately  for  her  secret  hope, 
surpris'd  them  in  a  tender  scene.  Sodaine  grief  e  orewhelm- 
ing  her  so  viole'tlie,  she  swound  before  them,  and  a  little 
space  thereafter  the  infant  sonne  so  constantly  desir'd, 
borne  untimely,  disappointed  once  more  this  selfish  mon- 
arch. This  threw  him  into  great  fury,  so  that  he  was 
cruellie  harsh  where   [he]   should  give  comfort  and  sup- 


XX  ARGUMENT. 

port,  throwing  so  mucli  blame  upon  the  gentle  Queene, 
that  her  heart  dyed  within  her  not  long  after  soe  sadde 
ending  of  a  mother,  her  hopes. 

Under  pretexte  of  beleeving  gentle  Queene  Anne  to  be 
guilty  of  unf aithfullnesse,  Henry  had  her  convey'd  to  Lon- 
don Tower,  and  subjected  her  to  such  ignominy  as  one  can 
barelie  beleeve,  ev'n  basely  laying  to  her  charge  the 
gravest  sins,  and  summoning  a  jury  of  peeres  delivered  the 
Queene  for  tryal  and  sentence.  His  act  doth  blacken 
pitch.  Ev'n  her  father,  sitting  amidst  the  peeres  before 
whom  shee  was  tried,  exciteth  not  so  much  astonishment 
since  hee  was  forc'd  thereto. 

Henry's  will  was  done,  but  hardly  could  hee  restraine 
the  impatience  that  sent  him  forth  from  his  pallace  at  th' 
hour  of  her  execution  to  an  eminence  neare  by,  in  order 
to  catche  th'  detonation  (ation)  of  th'  field  peece  whose 
hollow  tone  tolde  the  moment  at  which  th'  cruell  axe  fell, 
and  see  the  blacke  flag,  that  signall  which  floated  wide  to 
tell  the  world  she  breath'd  no  more. 

Th'  hast  with  which  hee  then  went  forward  with  his 
marriage,  proclaym'd  the  reall  rigor  or  frigidity  of  his 
hart.  It  is  by  all  men  accompted  strange,  this  subtile 
power  by  which  soe  many  of  the  peeres  could  be  forc'd  to 
passe  sentence  upon  this  lady,  when  proofes  of  guilt  were 
nowhere  to  bee  produced.  In  justice  to  a  memorie  dear 
to  my  self  e,  I  must  aver  that  it  is  far  from  cleare  yet,  upon 
what  charge  shee  was  found  worthie  of  death.  It  must  of 
neede  have  beene  some  quiddet  of  th'  lawe,  that  chang'd 
some  harmlesse  words  into  anything  one  had  in  minde,  for 
in  noe  other  waye  could  speech  of  hers  be  made  wrongfull. 
Having  fayl'd  to  prove  her  untrue,  nought  could  bring 
about  such  a  resulte,  had  this  not  (have)  beene  accom- 
plish'd. 

Thus  was  her  good  fame  made  a  reproache,  and  time 
hath  not  given  backe  that  priceles  treasure.     If  my  plaie 


V 


OF  THE  PLAY.  XXI 

shal  shew  this  most  clearly,  I  shall  be  co'tente.  And  as 
for  my  roiall  gi*andsire,  whatever  honour  hath  beene  lost 
by  such  a  course,  is  re-gain'd  by  his  descendants  from  the 
union,  through  this  lovi'g  justification  of  Anne  BuUe',  his 
murther'd  Queene. 

Before  I  go  further  with  instructions,  I  make  bold  to 
say  that  th'  benefits  we  who  now  live  in  our  free  England 
reape  [are]  from  her  faith  and  unfayling  devotion  to  th' 
advancement,  that  she  herselfe  promoting,  beheld  well 
undertaken.  It  was  her  most  earnest  beliefe  in  this  re- 
markable and  wddelie  spread  effecte  on  th'  true  prosperitie 
of  the  realme,  and  not  a  love  o'  dignity  or  power, — if  the 
evidence  of  workes  be  taken, — that  co'strain'd  her  to  take 
upon  her  th'  responsibility  of  roialtie.  And  I  am  fullie 
perswaded  in  mine  owne  minde  that  had  shee  lived  to  carry 
out  all  th'  work,  her  honours,  no  doubt,  had  outvied  those 
of  her  world-wide  famed  and  honour'd  daughter  who  con- 
tinu'd  that  which  had  beene  so  well  commenc'd. 

I  am  aware  many  artes  waned  in  the  raignes  of 
Edward  and  bloodie  Mary,  also  that  their  recovery  must 
have  requir'd  patient  attention  and  the  expenditure  of 
money  my  mother  had  no  desire  so  to  imploy,  having  many 
other  things  at  that  time  by  which  th'  coffers  were  drayn'd 
subtly ;  but  that  it  must  require  f  arre  greater  perseverance 
in  order  to  begin  so  noble  work,  devising  th'  plannes  and 
ayding  in  their  execution,  cannot  be  impugn'd.  Many 
times  these  things  do  not  shewe  lightness  or  th'  vanitie 
which  some  have  laid  to  her  charge. 

However  th'  play  doth  reveale  this  better,  f  arre,  then  1 
wish  t'  give  it  in  this  Cypher,  therefore  I  begge  that  it 
shall  bee  written  out  and  kept  as  a  perpetual  monument  of 
my  wrong' d,  but  innocent  ancestresse. 

My  keies  mentio'd  in  the  beginning  of  this  most  help- 
full  work,  will  follow  in  this  place : — 


XXII  KEYS  OF  THE  PLAY. 

The  King  Henry  Sevent,  Kath'rine  th'  Infanta, 
Prince  Arthur,  Catholicke  Spaine,  Prince  of  Wales,  King 
Henry  th'  Eight,  Eome,  nii'cio.  Pope,  Protestant,  Anne 
BuUen,  prelate,  Wolsej,  divorce,  fury,  excommunication, 
Prance,  Prancis  Pirst,  marriage,  ceremony,  brother,  pa- 
geant, barge,  Richmond,  Greenwich,  Tower,  procession, 
cloth,  tissue,  panoply,  canopy,  cloth  o'  gold,  litter,  bearing- 
staves,  pageant,  streets,  coronation,  crowne  of  Edward, 
purple  robe,  roiall  ermine,  mace,  th'  sword,  wand,  esses, 
Prench,  Spanish  ambassadours,  advance-guards,  mayor, 
dutchesse,  Duke  Suffolke,  l^orfolke,  Marquesse  Dorset, 
Bishop  London,  same  Winchester,  th'  Knights  of  th'  Gar- 
ter, Lord  Chancellour,  judges,  Surrey,  Earle,  quirrestres, 
lords,  ladies,  et  al.,  Westminster,  Rochford,  Wiltshire, 
manors,  castles,  land,  valew,  titles,  Marchionesse  of  Pem- 
brooke,  ports,  countesses,  roiall  scepter,  stile,  power,  title, 
pompe,  realme,  artes,  advancement,  liberty,  treasure,  warre, 
treaty,  study,  benefit,  trade,  priest,  monastery,  restitution, 
acts,  supremacy,  succession,  Elizabeth,  daughter,  sonne, 
heyres,  unfaithfulnesse,  treason,  jSTorris,  Weston,  subtile 
triumph,  hate,  losse,  evill,  jealousie,  love,  beautie,  Tower, 
tryall,  proofe,  sentry,  sentence,  executed,  burning,  choyce, 
the  axe,  block,  uncover'd  face,  report,  black-flag,  freedom, 
marriage-vow,  Edward. 

As  hath  most  f requentlie  bin  said  these  will  write  th' 
play,  but  th'  foregoing  abridgeme't,  or  argument,  wil  ayde 
you.  In  good  hope  of  saving  th'  same  from  olde  Pather 
Time's  ravages,  heere  have  I  hidden  this  Cypher  play.  To 
you  I  entruste  th'  taske  I,  myselfe,  shall  never  see  com- 
plete, it  is  probable,  but  soe  firme  is  my  conviction  that  it 
must  before  long  put  up  its  leaves  like  th'  plant  in  th' 
sunne,  that  I  rest  contente  awaiting  that  time. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON AE. 


Anne  Boleyn.  ■  Sir  Thomas  Lovel. 

King  Henry  the  Eighth.  Sir  John  Russell. 

Cardinal  Wolsey.  Sir  Francis  Weston. 

Nuncio  of  the  Pope.  Attorney-General. 

Imperial  Ambassador.  Cromwell. 

French  Arnbassador. 

Cranmer,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 

DuTce  of  Norfolk.  Harry  Percy. 

Duhe  of  Suffolk.  Thomas  Wyat. 

Earl  of  Surrey.  Henry  Norris. 

Earl  of  Derby.  Frith,  a  Lutheran. 

Earl  of  Northumberland.  Garter,  King  at  Arms. 

Lord  Chamberlain.  Sergeant  at  Arms. 

Lord  Chancellor.  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 

Gardiner,  Bishop  of  Winchester.    Friar. 


Lord  Dacres. 
Lord  Howard.' 
Lord  Hussey. 
Lord  Rochford. 
Lord  Sands. 
Sir  Nicholas  Careiv. 
Sir  Henry   Guilford. 
Sir  William  Kingston. 


Countess  of  Oxford. 

Countess  of  Worcester. 

Lady  Rochford. 

Lady  Kingston. 

Jane  Seymour. 

Elizabeth  Barton,  the  Holy  Mau 

of  Kent. 
Emilia,  Woman  to  the  Queen. 


Lords  and  other  Attendants,  Citizens,  Aldermen,  Warders, 

Officers,  Guard,  Soldiers,  Huntsmen,  Forester, 

Messenger,  Page,  Herald,  Chorus,  etc. 


Tli^t  Trngjerlg  nf  ^xxnt  l^xxh'^n. 


The  Pkologue. 

I  come  no  more  to  make  you  laugh :  things  now 
That  bear  a  weighty  and  a  serious  brow, 
Sad,  high,  and  working,  full  of  state  and  woe — 
Such  noble  scenes  as  draw  the  eye  to  flow — 
We  now  present.     Those  that  can  pity,  here 
May,  if  they  think  it  well,  let  fall  a  tear ; 
The  subject  will  deserve  it.     Such  as  give 
Their  money  out  of  hope  they  may  believe, 
May  here  find  truth  too. 

Ferdinand  of  Spain 
Writes  to  King  Henry  Seventh  in  terms  most  plain, 
Of  his  succession  naught  assurance  gives 
As  long  as  Edward,  Earl  of  Warwick,  lives : 
And  he  his  daughter  Katherine  is  loth 
To  send  to  troubles  and  to  dangers  both. 
The  treaty  of  the  marriage's  seal'd  alone 
In  blood  will  make  'em  one  day  for  it  groan. 
A  kind  of  malediction  doth  the  King — 
And  an  inf  austing — 'pon  the  marriage  bring. 
An  ill  prognostic  which  events  prove  true, 
As  *o  Prince  Arthur  and  sad  Katherine,  too. 
More  of  this  matter  cannot  I  report ; 
But  this  young  Prince  where  he  doth  keep  his  court 
And  resiance — at  Ludlow  Castle — dies, 


And  Princess  Katherine's  nnblest  Fate  now  hies 
To  the  palace  of  our  king.     O  Harry's  wife, 
A  queen  crowned  with  care,  I  give  thy  life 
Into  God's  hand — the  sad  attending  ear 
Another  woful  tragedy  shall  hear. 
And,  out  of  question,  so  it  is  sometimes. 
Glory  grows  guilty  of  detested  crimes ; 
.  When  for  fame's  sake,  for  praise,  an  outward  part. 
We  bend  to  that  the  working  of  the  heart. 


Tl|je  Trcig:exlg  nf  ^nnt  SBnbgn* 


Actus  Primus.     Scena  Prima. 


Enter  Lord  Chamberlain,  Lord  Sands  and 
Sir  Thomas  Lovel. 


L.  Cham.  Come,  good  Sir  Thomas,  to  the  Cardinal's. 

Lov.  Your  lordship  is  a  guest  too. 

L.  Cham.  O,  'tis  true ; 
This  night  he  makes  a  supper,  and  a  great  one. 
To  many  lords  and  ladies ;  there  will  be 
The  beauty  of  this  kingdom  I'll  assure  you. 

Lov.   That  cliurchman  bears  a  bounteous  mind  indeed, 
A  hand  as  fruitful  as  the  land  that  feeds  us ; 
His  dews  fall  everywhere. 

L.  Cham.  No  doubt  he's  noble ; 
He  had  a  black  mouth  that  said  other  of  him. 

L.  San.  He  may,  my  lord, 
Ha's  wherewithal ;  in  him, 

Sparing  would  show  a  worse  sin  than  ill-doctrine : 
Men  of  his  way  should  be  most  liberal. 
They  are  set  here  for  examples. 

L.  Cham.  True,  they  are  so ; 
But  few  now  give  so  great  ones.     Come,  Lord  Sands, 
We  shall  be  late  else,  which  I  would  not  be. 
For  I  was  spoke  to,  with  Sir  Henry  Guilford, 
This  night  to  be  comptrollers. 

L.  San.  I  am  your  lordship's.  (Exeunt.) 


The  Tragedy  of 


Scena  Secunda. 


Hautboys.    A  small  table  under  a  state  for  the  Cardinal,  a 

longer  table  for  the  guests.    Enter  Anne  Boleyn  and 

divers  other  Ladies  ayid  Qentleinen  as  guests 

at  one  door;  at  another  door  enter 

Sm  Henry  Guilford. 


Si7'  H.  Ladies, 
A  general  welcome  from  his  grace 
Salutes  je  all :  this  night  he  dedicates 
To  fair  content,  and  jou :  none  here,  he  hopes, 
In  all  this  noble  bevj,  has  brought  with  her 
One  care  abroad :  he  would  have  all  as  merry 
As  first,  good  company,  good  wine,  good  welcome 
Can  make  good  people. 

Enter  Lord  Chamberlain^  Lord  Sands,  and  Lovel. 
O  my  lord,  you're  tardy ; 
The  very  thought  of  this  fair  company 
Clapt  wings  to  me. 

L.  Cham.  You  are  young,  Sir  Harry  Guilford. 

Ij.  San.  Wings  and  no  eyes  figure  unheedy  haste. 
An  honest  country  lord,  as  I  am,  beaten 
A  long  time  out  of  play — 

L.  Cham.  Well  said,  Lord  Sands, 
Your  colt's  tooth  is  not  cast  yet. 

L.  San.  No,  my  lord, 
N^or  shall  not  while  I  have  a  stump.     By  my  life. 
They  are  a  sweet  society  of  fair  ones. 

L.  Cham.  Sweet  ladies,  will  it  please  you  sit  ? 
Sir  Harry, 
Place  you  that  side,  I'll  take  the  charge  of  this : 
His  grace  is  entering, — Nay  you  must  not  freeze. 
Two  women  plac'd  together,  makes  cold  weather : 
My  Lord  Sands,  you  are  one  will  keep  'em  waking ; 


Anne  Boleyn. 


C 


Pray  sit  between  these  ladies. 

L.  San.  By  my  faith, 
And  thank  your  lordship :  by  your  leave,  sweet  ladies, 
If  I  chance  to  talk  a  little  wild,  forgive  me ; 
I  had  it  from  my  father. 

An7ie  B.  Was  he  mad,  sir  ? 

L.  San.  O  very  mad,  exceeding  mad,  in  love  too, 
The  merry  mad-cap  lord.     Not  a  word  with  him 
But  a  jest. 

Anne  B.  And  every  jest  but  a  word. 

L.  Cham.  It  was 
Well  done  of  you  to  take  him  at  his  word. 
So,  now  you're  fairly  seated. — Gentlemen, 
The  penance  lies  on  you,  if  these  fair  ladies 
Pass  away  frowning. 

L.  San.  For  my  little  cure, 
Let  me  alone. 

La.  Ros.  Thou  art  an  old  love-monger 
And  speakest  skillfully. 

La.  Ma.  He's  Cupid's  grandsire. 
And  learns  news  of  him. 

Anne  B.  Then  was  Venus  like 
Her  mother,  for  her  father  is  but  grim. 

L.  San.  Cupid  hath  all  his  arrows  shot  at  me ; 
With  various  desires  I  am  deluded. 
One  love  succeeds  another,  and  so  soon 
Ere  one  is  ended  I  begin  a  second ; 
She  that  is  last 's  still  fairest,  she  that's  present 
Pleaseth  me  most.     What  Telchin  is  my  genius  ? 

Anne  B.  Is  it,  my  lord,  a  natural  imperfection  ? 
Or  an  hereditary  passion  ? 

L.  San.  Ay,  madam,  in  a  word : 

Canst  count  the  leaves  in  May, 
Or  sands  %  th'  ocean  sea  P 
Then  count  my  loves  I  pray. 


6  The  Tragedy  of 


Hautboys.     Enter  Cardinal  Wolsey  and  takes  his  state. 

Card.  Set  me  the  stoups  of  wine  upon  the  table. 
You're  welcome,  my  fair  guests ;  that  noble  lady 
Or  gentleman  that  is  not  freely  merry 
Is  not  my  friend :  this  to  confirm  my  welcome, 
And  to  you  all,  good  health.  {He  drinhs.) 

L.  San.  Your  grace  is  noble : 
Let  me  have  such  a  bowl  may  hold  my  thanks 
And  save  me  so  much  talking. 

Card.  My  Lord  Sands, 
Here's  to  thy  health.     Give  him  the  cup. 
I  am  beholding  to  you :  cheer  your  neighbors. 
Ladies  you  are  not  merry. — Gentlemen, 
Whose  fault  is  this  ? 

L.  Ban.  The  red  wine  first  must  rise 
In  their  fair  cheeks,  my  lord,  then  we  shall  have  'em 
Talk  us  to  silence. 

Anne  B.  You  are  a  merry  gamester, 
My  Lord  Sands. 

L.  San.  Yes,  if  I  make  my  play : 
Here's  to  your  ladyship,  and  pledge  it,  madam. 

Anne  B.  Drink  thou,  my  lord. 

L.  San.  Come,  fill  till  the  cup  be  hid. 

Anne  B.  This  is  not  yet  an  Alexandrian  feast. 

{Brum  and  trumpet.     Chambers  discharged.) 

L.  San.  I  told  your  grace  they  would  talk  anon. 
Card.  What's  that? 
-  L.  Cham.  Look  out  there,  some  of  ye. 
Card.  What  warlike  voice  ? 
And  to  what  end  is  this  ?     ^ay,  ladies,  fear  not ; 
By  all  the  lav.'s  of  war  you're  privileg'd. 

{Enter  a  Servant.) 
L.  Cham.  How  now  ?  what  is't  ? 
Ser.  A  noble  troop  of  strangers, 


Anne  Boleyn. 


For  so  they  seem ;  they've  left  their  barge,  and  landed ; 
And  hither  make,  as  great  ambassadors 
From  foreign  princes. 

Card.  Good  Lord  Chamberlain, 
Thyself  do  grace  to  them  and  bring  them  in ; 
This  heaven  of  beauty  shall  shine  at  full  upon  them ; 
If  they  do  speak  our  language,  'tis  our  will 
That  some  plain  man  recount  their  purposes. 
Let  some  attend  him. 

{Exit  L.  Chamberlain,  Servant,  and  others.) 

Sir  H.  A  hall,  a  hall,  give  room : 
More  light,  you  knaves,  and  turn  the  tables  up, 
And  quench  the  fire,  the  room  is  grown  too  hot. 
Ah  ladies,  this  unlookt  for  sport  comes  well. 

{All  rise  and  the  tables  are  removed.) 

Card.  You  have  now  a  broken  banquet,  but  we'll 
mend  it. 
A  good  digestion  to  you  all :  once  more 
I  shower  a  w^elcome  on  ye ; — welcome  all. 

Hautboys.  Enter  King  and  others  as  mashers,  habited  like 
shepherds,  ushered  by  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  They 
pass  directly  before  the  Cardinal  and  gracefully  salute 
him. 

A  noble  company  !  what  are  their  pleasures  ? 

L.  Cham.  Because  they  speak  no  English,  thus  they 
pray'd 
To  tell  your  grace ; — that,  having  heard  by  fame 
Of  this  so  noble  and  so  fair  assembly 
This  night  to  meet  here,  they  could  do  no  less — 
Out  of  the  great  respect  they  bear  to  beauty — 
But  leave  their  flocks,  and  under  your  fair  conduct. 
Crave  leave  to  view  these  ladies,  and  entreat 
An  hour  of  revels  with  'em. 

Card.   Say,  Lord  Chamberlain, 


8  The  Tragedy  of 


They've  done  my  poor  house  grace ;  for  which  I  pay  'em 
A  thousand  thanks  and  pray  'em  take  their  pleasures. 

L.  Cham.  Welcome,  gentlemen. 

La.  Bos.  What  would  they,  say  they  ? 

L.  San.  ]N^othing  but  peace  and  gentle  visitation. 

La.  Ros.  Why  that  they  have,  and  bid  them  so  be  gone. 

King.  Say  to  her,  we  have  measur'd  many  miles 
To  tread  a  measure  with  you. 

L.  San.  Lady  Rosaline, 
They  say  they've  measur'd  many  weary  miles 
To  tread  a  measure  with  you. 

La.  Bos.  'Tis  not  so. 
Ask  them  how  many  inches  in  one  mile  ? 
If  they  have  measur'd  many,  many  miles. 
The  measure  then  of  one  is  eas'ly  told. 

L.  San.  If  to  come  hither  you  have  measur'd  miles, 
And  many  miles,  the  lady  bids  you  tell 
How  many  inches  doth  fill  up  one  mile  ? 

Lord.  Tell  her  we  measure  them  by  weary  steps. 

L.  San.  She  hears  herself. 

La.  Bos.  How  many  weary  steps. 
Of  many  weary  miles  you  have  o'ergone. 
Are  number'd  in  the  travel  of  one  mile  ? 

Lord.  We  number  nothing  that  we  spend  for  you, 
Our  duty  is  so  rich,  so  infinite. 
That  we  may  do  it  still  without  accompt. 

(Music  plays.) 

La.  Bos.  The  music  plays,  vouchsafe  some  motion 
to  it. 

Lord.  Will  you  vouchsafe  with  me  to  change  a  word  ? 

La.  Bos.  ISTame  it. 

Lord.  Fair  lady, — 

La.  Bos.  Say  you  so  ?     Fair  lord, — 
Take  you  that  for  your  fair  lady. 

L.  San.  Ladies  that  have  their  toes 


Anne  Boleyn.  9 


Unplagu'd  with  corns  will  walk  about  with  you. 
Ah,  my  mistresses,  which  of  you  all 
Will  now  deny  to  dance  ?     She  that  makes  dainty, 
She  I'll  swear  hath  corns :  am  I  come  near  ye  now  ? 

La.  Ma.  Since  you  are  strangers  and  come  here  by 
chance, 
We'll  not  be  nice ;  take  hands,  we  will  now  dance. 

{They  dance.) 

King.  What  lady  is  that  doth  enrich  the  hand 
Of  yonder  knight  ? 

Ser.  I  know  not,  sir. 

King.  My  lord, 
I  beseech  you  a  word :  what  lady  is  that  same  ? 

L.  San.  A  woman,  if  you  saw  her  in  the  light. 

King.  She's  a  most  sweet  lady,  I  desire  her  name. 

L.  San.  She  hath  but  one  for  herself,  it  were  a  shame 
To  desire  that. 

King.  Pray  you  sir,  whose  daughter  ?     Speak. 

L.  San.  Her  mother's,  I  have  heard. 

King.  My  Lord  Chamberlain, 
Prithee  come  hither,  what  fair  lady's  that  ? 

L.  Cham.  An't  please  your  Grace,  Sir  Thomas 
Boleyn's  daughter — 
The  Viscount  Eochford — one  of  her  highness'  women. 

King.  When  tongues  speak  sweetly,  then  they  name 
her  name. 
O  she  doth  teach  the  torches  to  burn  bright ! 
It  seems  she  hangs  upon  the  cheek  of  I^ight, 
As  a  rich  jewel  in  an  Ethiop's  ear : 
Beauty  too  rich  for  use,  for  earth  too  dear ! 
So  shews  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows. 
As  yonder  lady  o'er  her  fellows  shews. 
The  measure  done,  I'll  watch  her  place  of  stand, 
And  touching  hers,  make  blessed  my  rude  hand. 
Did  my  heart  love  till  now, 'forswear  it  sight. 


10  The  Tragedy  of 


For  I  never  saw  true  beauty  till  this  night. 

{Choose  ladies.    King  and  Anne  Boleyn.) 
The  fairest  hand  I  ever  touched !     O  beauty, 
Till  now  I  never  knew  thee !  {Music.     Dance.} 

Card.  My  lord. 

L.  Cham.  Your  grace  ? 

Card.  Pray  tell  'em  thus  much  from  me : 
There  should  be  one  amongst  'em,  by  his  person, 
More  worthy  this  place  than  myself,  to  whom — 
If  I  but  knew  him — with  my  love  and  duty 
I  would  surrender  it. 

L.  Cham.  1  will,  my  lord.  {They  whisper.) 

Card.  What  say  they  ? 

L.  Cham.   Such  an  one,  they  all  confess, 
There  is  indeed ;  which  they  would  have  your  grace 
Find  out,  and  he  will  take  it. 

Cai^d.  Let  me  see  then. — 
By  all  your  good  leaves,  gentlemen,  here  I'll  make 
My  royal  choice. 

King.  Ye  have  found  him.  Cardinal. 

{King  unmasks. }> 
You  hold  a  fair  assembly ;  you  do  well  lord : 
You  are  a  churchman,  or  I'll  tell  you  Cardinal, 
I  should  judge  you  now  unhappily. 

Card.  1  am  glad 
Your  Grace's  so  pleasant.     I  have  seen  the  day 
That  I  have  worn  a  visor,  and  could  tell 
A  whispering  tale  in  a  fair  lady's  ear. 
Such  as  would  please :  'tis  gone,  'tis  gone,  'tis  gone. 
Sir  Thomas  Lovel,  is  the  banquet  ready 
I'  th'  privy  chamber  '? 

Lov.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Card.  Your  Grace, 
T  fear,  with  dancing  is  a  little  heated. 

King.  I  fear,  too  much.  ' 


Anne  Boleyn.  11 


Card.  There's  fresher  air,  my  Lord, 
In  the  next  chamber. 

King.  Lead  in  your  ladies  every  one. — Sweet  partner, 
I  must  not  yet  forsake  you : — let's  be  merry ; 
Good  my  Lord  Cardinal,  I've  half  a  dozen  healths 
To  drink  to  these  fair  ladies,  and  a  measure 
To  lead  'em  once  again ;  and  then  let's  dream 
Who's  best  in  favor. — Let  the  music  knock  it. 
By  heaven  she  is  a  dainty  one. — {Speaking  to  himself.) 
Sweetheart, 

I  were  unmannerly  to  take  you  out. 
And  not  to  kiss  you. 

Anne  B.  I^ay,  though  several 
My  lips,  they  are  not  common. 

King.  Belonging  to  whom  ? 

Anne  B.  To  my  fortunes  and  me. 

King.  God's  blessing  on  you. 
Lady,  I  will  commend  you  to  my  heart. 

L.  San.  He'd  kiss  you  twenty  with  a  breath,  fair 

Anne.  (SpeaMng  to  himself.) 

Away,  be  gone,  the  sport  is  at  the  best. 

Sir  H.  Ay,  so  I  fear,  the  more  is  my  unrest. 

Card.  ISTay,  gentlemen,  prepare  not  to  be  gone, 
We  have  a  trifling  foolish  banquet  towards. 
More  torches  here.  (Exeunt  with  trumpets.) 


Scena  Tertia. 


Banquet  prepared.    Enter  King,  Lords,  Ladies, 
and  Attendants. 


Card.  You  know  your  own  degrees,  sit  down : 
At  first  and  last  the  heartv  welcome. 


12  The  Tragedy  of 


Lords.  Thanks. 

King.   Ourself  will  mingle  witli  society 
And  play  the  humble  host :  I'll  sit  i'  th'  midst. 
Be  large  in  mirth,  anon  we'll  drink  a  measure 
The  table  round. 

Card.  Thanks  to  your  Majesty. 

King.  Eat,  drink,  and  love ;  all  other  things  are 

nought.  {King  sits  in  a  muse.) 

L.  San.  If  my  observation — which  seldom  lies, 
By  th'  heart's  still  rhetoric,  disclos'd  with  eyes — 
Deceive  me  not,  his  majesty's  infected. 

La.  Bos.  With  what  ? 

L.  San.  Forsooth,  with  love. 

La.  Bos.  My  little  heart ! 

0  none  but  gods  have  power  their  love  to  hide ! 

L.  Sa7i.  The  light  of  hidden  fire  itself  discovers. 

La.  Bos.  Therefore,  even  as  an  index  to  a  book. 
So  to  his  mind  his  look. 

Aniie  B.  My  royal  Lord, 
You  do  not  give  the  cheer ;  the  feast  is  sold 
That  is  not  often  vouch'd,  while  'tis  a-making, 
'Tis  given  with  a  welcome :  to  feed  were  best  at  home ; 
From  thence,  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony ; 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

King.  Sweet  remembrancer  !  {King  rises.) 

~Ro\Y  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite. 
And  health  on  both  !     Come,  love  and  health  to  all ; 
Then  I'll  sit  down : — give  me  some  wine,  fill  full : — 

1  drink  to  the  general  joy  o'  th'  whole  table. 

Card.  And  all  to  all. 

Lords.  Our  duties  and  the  pledge. 

King.  O  sweet  and  pretty  speaking  eyes, 
Where  Venus,  Love,  and  Pleasure  lies. 

Sir  H.  Most  gracious  Majesty,  we've  made  a  vow, 
And  in  that  vow  we  have  forsworn  our  books ; 


Anne  Boleyn.  13 


For  when  would  you,  mj  Liege,  or  you,  or  you. 

In  leaden  contemplation,  have  found  out 

Such  fiery  numbers  as  the  prompting  eyes 

Of  beauty's  tutors  have  enrich'd  you  with  ? 

Other  slow  arts  entirely  keep  the  brain ; 

And  therefore  finding  barren  practicers,  ^ 

Scarce  shew  a  harvest  of  their  heavy  toil : 

But  love,  first  learned  in  a  lady's  eyes, 

Lives  not  alone  immured  in  the  brain ; 

But,  with  the  motion  of  all  elements. 

Courses  as  swift  as  thought  in  every  power, 

And  gives  to  every  power  a  double  power. 

Above  their  functions  and  their  offices. 

It  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye — 

A  lover's  eye  will  gaze  an  eagle  blind ; 

A  lover's  ear  will  hear  the  lowest  sound. 

When  the  suspicious  head  of  theft  is  stopp'd ; 

Love's  feeling  is  more  soft,  and  sensible. 

Than  are  the  tender  horns  of  cockled  snails ; 

Love's  tongue  proves  dainty  Bacchus  gross  in  taste ; 

For  valor,  is  not  Love  a  Hercules 

Still  climbing  trees  in  the  Hesperides, 

Whose  fruit  none  rightly  can  describe,  but  he 

That  pulls  or  shakes  it  from  the  golden  tree  ? 

Subtle  as  sphinx ;  as  sweet,  and  musical, 

As  bright  Apollo's  lute  strung  with  his  hair ; 

And  when  Love  speaks,  the  voice  of  all  the  gods 

Makes  heaven  drowsy  Avith  the  harmony. 

JSTever  durst  poet  touch  a  pen  to  write. 

Until  his  ink  were  temper'd  with  Love's  sighs. 

O,  then  his  lines  would  ravish  savage  ears, 

And  plant  in  tyrants  mild  humility. 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive : 

They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire ; 

They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  th'  academies,  the  ground, 


14  The  Tragedy  of 


That  shew,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world. 

For  when  would  you,  my  lord,  or  you,  or  you, 

Have  found  the  ground  of  study's  excellence 

Without  the  beauty  of  a  woman's  face  ? 

Like  as  the  sun  in  a  diameter 

Fires  and  inflames  objects  removed  far, 

And  heateth  kindly  shining  literally; 

So  beauty  sweetly  quickens  when  'tis  nigh. 

But  being  separated  and  remov'd. 

Burns  where  it  cherish'd,  murders  where  it  lov'd. 

King.  Saint  Cupid,  then.  (They  all  drinh.) 

Loi'ds.  O  Cupid,  prince  of  gods  and  men ! 

(Drink.) 

Card.  I  never  may  believe 
These  antique  fables  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains, 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet. 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact. 
One  sees  more  divels  than  vast  hell  can  hold — 
That  is  the  madman.     The  lover, all  as  frantic. 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt. 
The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling. 
Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven ; 
And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing, 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name. 
Such  tricks  has  strong  imagination. 
That  if  it  would  but  apprehend  some  joy, 
It  comprehends  some  bringer  of  that  joy. 

L.  San.   Come  now,  what  masks,  what  dances  shall 
we  have  ? 
Where  is  our  usual  manager  of  mirth  ? 


Anne  Boleyn.  15 


What  revels  are  in  hand  ?     Is  there  no  play  ? 

Sir  H.  A  play  there  is,  my  lord,  a  comedy — 
'Tis  Aulularia. 

L.  San.  I  or  the  law  of  writ 
And  liberty,  Plautus  cannot  be  too  light. 

Sir  H.  IS'or  Seneca  too  heavy.    There  are  things 
I'  this  comedy  will  never  please  the  ladies. 

L.  San.  I  do  not  doubt  but  to  hear  them  say,  my  lord, 
'Tis  a  sweet  comedy. 

Sir  H.  Well  no  more  words,  away. 
Players, — your  honors,  and  you  fairest  ladies, — 
Are  come  to  play  a  pleasant  comedy ; 
So  frame  your  minds  to  mirth  and  merriment, 
Which  bars  a  thousand  harms  and  lengthens  life. 

Hautboys.     Enter  Prologue. 

For  us  and  for  our  comedy. 

Here  stooping  to  your  clemency, 

We  beg  your  hearing  patiently.  (Exit.) 

L.  San.  Is  this  a  prologue,  or  the  poesy  of  a  ring  ? 
La.  Ros.  'Tis  brief,  my  lord. 
L.  San.  As  woman's  love. 
SirH.  Oho! 
Do  you  mark  that  ? 

La.  Ros.  My  lord,  you  are  merry. 

Enter  Euclio  driving  out  Stajjhyla. 

Euc.  Out,  out  thou  wretch ;  away,  get  thee  away. 
]N"ow  thou  art  troublesome.     Ha !  get  thee  out. 
Prithee  avoid  the  house.     'Troth,  hence,  be  gone ; 
And  if  thou  jealous  dost  return  to  pry 
In  what  I  further  shall  intend  to  do. 
By  heaven,  I'll  beat  this  method  in  thy  sconce. 

Sta.   Sconce  call  you  it  ?     So,  so :  but  I  pray,  sir. 
Why  am  I  beaten  ?    Ay  me,  ay  me,  most  wretched  ! 

Euc.  To  make  thee  wretched.     O  terrible  woe, 


10  The  Tragedy  of 


Fall  ten  times  treble  on  that  cursed  head ! 

Sta.  What  is  the  reason  that  you  use  me  thus  ? 
And  wherefore  keep  me  from  the  house  I  owe  ? 

Euc.  Give  thee  a  reason  on  compulsion  ?     jS^o  ; 
Demand  me  nothing :  what  thou  know'st,  thou  know'st. 
The  harvest  is  thine  own — aj,  of  keen  whips — 
Ha !  get  thee  from  the  door. 
Do  you  see  this  ? 

Look  on  her,  look,  look  there,  look  there  !  she  creeps : 
Her  motion  and  her  station  are  as  one. 
Why  then,  how  stands  the  matter  with  thee  ? 
Come,  recreant,  come:  I'll  Avhip  thee  with  the  rod. 
Come,  forth  I  say,  thou  earth,  thou :  come,  thou  tortoise. 

Sta.  How  may  I  be  deliver'd  of  these  woes  ? 
O  you  good  gods,  teach  me  to  hang  myself, 
Rather  than  be  a  slave  within  this  house 
Upon  such  terms.     This  is  not  well,  not  well. 

Euc.  How  now  thou  hag  ?     What !  dost  thou 
grumble  ?     Hark ! 

0  for  a  stone-bow  to  hit  thee  in  the  eye. 

1  have  an  humor  t'  knock  thee,  lest  thou  watch  me  like 

Argus. 
Prithee  get  thee  further,  further  I  say,  and  further. 

(Pushes  her  with  his  ha7ids.) 

Sta.  How,  so  far  ? 

Euc.  ]^ot  an  inch  further,  there  now,  stand  still. 
Thou  shalt  not  budge,  thou  go'st  not  from  this  spot 
A  hair's  breadth.     Stand,  and  if  thou  but  look  back, 
I  will  give  up  thy  body  to  the  murderer's  gibbet. 
iSTot  one  word  more. 

Blest  to  be  most  accurst,  {SpeaTcing  to  himself.) 

Rich  only  to  be  wretched  ;  thy  great  fortunes 
Are  made  thy  chief  afflictions.     She's  a  gross  hag 
That  will  not  stay  her  tongue.     My  heart  hath  fear 
That  by  her  cunning  she  hath  cheated  me. 


Anne  Boleyn.  17 


See  how  the  ngly  witch  doth  bend  her  brows  ! 
Still  prying  on  all  sides — hath  eyes  behind — 
I  will  return  again  into  the  house. 
She  will  suspect  where  I  have  closely  hid't : 
There  is  some  ill  a-brewing  towards  my  rest. 

{He  goes  into  the  house.) 

StapJiyla,  solus. 

Beshrew  his  hand !     I  scarce  can  understand  it, 

But  sure  he  is  stark  mad.     Ten  times  each  day 

I'm  driven  out  of  doors.     I'  faith,  insanity 

Doth  take  possession  of  him.     Oft,  in  sooth. 

He  sits  all  night  to  watch,  like  one  that  fears 

A  thief — both  day  and  night,  as  would  a  cobbler  . 

Whose  feet  were  lame  and  could  not  bear  themselves. 

And  creep  time  ne'er  so  slow,  yet  will  it  come 

To  Phsedra.      She  is  very  near  her  hour. 

What  shall  be  done  with  her  ?     Alas,  alas  ! 

Ah !  better  would  it  fit  me  much  to  make 

Myself  an  I,  if  rn'cap  wo\ild  buy  a  halter. 

Entei'  Euclio  from  his  house. 

Euc.  Then  is  all  safe,  I'll  fear  no  other  thing. 
Well  Staphyla,  go  in :  look  to  my  house : 
Clap  to  the  doors,  and  watch ; 
Tast  bind,  fast  find. 

Sta.  Yea,  watch :  forsooth  nothing,  nothing  at  all. 
What  should  you  fear  ?     That  they'll  carry  it  away  ? 
^Nothing  can  thieves  steal  else,  'tis  all  filFd  up 
With  cobwebs  and  with  hollow  emptiness. 

Euc.  'Tis  a  wonder,  by  thy  leave,  that  for  thy  sake 
Great  Jupiter  did  not  make  me  a  King  Philip, 
Or  a  Darius,  thou  hag,  thou.     Hark !  I  choose 
To  have  my  cobwebs  watch'd.     Ay,  I  am  poor — 
The  gentle  gods  give  me  but  this  I  have — 
I  ask  no  more.     Hear  thou  me,  Staphyla, 


18  The  Tragedy  of 


Lock  up  my  doors,  and  let  no  creature  enter. 
Perhaps  I  will  return  immediately. 
.Do  as  I  Lid  thee,  shut  doors  after  thee. 
Sta.  Why,  one  may  ask  for  fire. 
Euc.    Let't  be  put  out. 
Lest  anybody  should  make  that  an  errand. 
Haste,  Staphyla,  now  the  wasted  brands  do  glow. 
And  through  the  house  do  give  a  giimm'ring  light : 
Put't  out,  or  be  extinguish'd.    If  I  quench  thee 
I  know"  not  where  is  that  Promethean  heat 
That  can  thy  light  relume.    If  any  ask 
For  water,  say  'tis  all  run  out. 

Sia.  Knife,  hatchet, 
"The  pestle  and  the  mortar — ev'ry  utensil 
Our  neighbors  ask  the  loan.  , 

Euc.   So  thou  mayst  say 
We  were  beset  with  thieves :  all's  borne  away. 
When  I  am  absent,  stop  my  house's  ears — 
All  this  beforehand  counsel  comprehends 
Dea  Bona  Fortuna;  she  shall  not  be  admitted. 

Sta.   She  does  not  greatly  care  to  be  admitted. 
I'  faith,  although  close  by  she'd  ne'er  come  in. 
Euc.  Hold  thy  tongue:  in,  in,  in,  in. 
Sta.  I  will  hold  my  tongue. 
And  of  my  own  accord,  I'll  off. 

Euc.  Shut  the  doors  fast 
With  bolts,  and  presently  I'll  be  with  thee. 

(Staphyla  goes  into  the  house.) 
Woe's  me !  I  am  much  troubled  in  my  mind 
To  leave  my  house.    I  am  right  loth  to  go. 
But  yet  I'll  go ;  yea,  lest  I  be  misconstru'd. 
W^hat  know  I  how  the  world  may  deem  of  me  ? 
If  I  tarry  at  home  and  go  not  when  the  Curio 
To  every  several  man  a  drachma  gives — 
If  that  should  be  relinquish'd,  never  ask'd  for — 


Anne  Boleyn.  19 


All  will  suspect  the  gold.    It  is  not  likely 

An  old,  poor  man,  as  iinconsider'd  trifles, 

Would  leave  a  piece  though  light.    Who  knows  not  that 

Which  it  torments  me  to  conceal  ?    They  look  on  me 

And  they  do  seem  to  know't.    They  are  civil : 

There's  not  a  man  I  meet  but  doth  salute  me 

As  if  I  were  their  well  acquainted  friend. 

And  every  one  doth  call  me  by  my  name : 

"HownowEuclio?"  "What,  Euclio  ?"  'Tellow!" 

"How  now  old  lad  ?"   "What,  you  ?" — thus  much  for 

greeting — 
"Give  me  your  hand."  "What  is  the  business  ?" 
Well  I  must  go  whither  I  had  set  out. 
And  afterwards  betake  me  to  my  home.  {Exit.) 

King.  Madam,  how  like  you  this  play  ? 

Anne  B.  Staphyla  protests  too  much,  methinks. 

King.  O,  but  she'll  keep  her  word. 

Anne  B.  Have  you  heard  the  argument  ?    Is  there  no 
offence  in  it  ? 

King.  JSTo  offence  i'  th'  w^orld. 

Anne  B.  What  do  you  call  the  play  ? 

King.  'Tis  Aulularia — a  wonder  to  see  such  men's  pro- 
ceedings. When  Euclio  washed  his  hands,  he  was  loth  to 
fling  away  the  foul  water ;  complaining  that  he  was  undone 
because  the  smoke  got  out  of  his  roof.  And  as  he  w^ent 
from  home  seeing  a  crow  scrat  upon  the  muck-hill,  returned 
in  all  haste,  taking  it  for  malum  omen,  an  ill  sign  his  money 
was  digged  up ;  with  many  such. 

Anne  B.  You  are  a  good  Chorus,  my  Lord. 

King.  He  that  will  but  observe  their  actions,  shall  find 
these  and  many  such  passages  not  feigned  for  sport  but 
really  performed,  verified,  indeed,  by  such  covetous  and 
miserable  wretches,  and  that  it  is 

' — manifesta  phrenesis, 
Ut  locuples  moriaris,  egenti  vivcre  fato. 


20  The  Tragedy  of 


A  mere  madness,  to  live  like  a  wretch,  and  die  rich. 

Anne  B.  But  this  is  the  silliest  stuff  that  e'er  I  heard. 

King.  What  dost  thou  think  'tis  worth  ? 

Anne  B.  Xot  worth  my  thinking — but  when  good  will 
is  shew'd  though't  come  too  short  the  actor  may  plead 
pardon. 

King.  The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows  and  the 
worst  no  worse,  if  imagination  amend  them. 

Anne  B.  It  must  be  your  imagination,  then,  and  not 
theirs. 

King.  If  we  imagine  no  worse  of  them  than  they  o% 
themselves,  they  may  pass  for  excellent  men.  Here  come 
the  players. 

Enter  Players. 

Play.  Sweet  royalty,  bestow  on  me  the  sense  of  hearing. 

King.  jSTo  more  I  pray  you ;  your  play  needs  no  excuse. 
ISTever  excuse.  Marry,  if  he  that  writ  it  had  played  Euclio, 
and  hung  himself  in  Staphyla's  sandal-lace,  it  would  have 
been  a  fine  tragedy.  And  so  it  is  truly,  and  very  notably 
discharg'd. 

Anne  B.  This  palpable,  gross  play  hath  well  beguil'd 
the  heavy  gait  of  Xight. 

King.  jSI"ow  for  new  jollity. 

Sweets  and  wine  brought  in. 
Fair  eyes  !  the  mirror  of  my  mazed  heart. 
What  wondrous  virtue  is  contain'd  in  you. 
The  which  both  life  and  death  forth  from  you  dart 
Into  the  object  of  your  mighty  view  ? 
Through  your  bright  beams,  doth  not  the  blinded  guest 
Shoot  out  his  darts  to  base  affections  wound ; 
But  angels  come  to  lead  frail  minds  to  rest 
In  chaste  desires,  on  heavenly  beauty  bound : 
You  frame  my  thoughts,  and  fashion  me  within ; 
You  stop  my  tongae,  and  teach  my  heart  to  speak; 
You  calm  the  storm  that  passion  did  begin. 


Anne  Boleyn.  21 


Strong  through  your  cause,  but  by  your  virtue  weak. 
Dark  is  the  world,  where  your  light  shineth  never : 
Well  is  he  born,  that  may  behold  you  ever. 

Anne  B.  A  thousand  thanks. 

King.   The  pretty  and  sweet  manner  of  it ! 

{Speaking  to  himself.) 
A  lip  sweet  ruby  red  grac'd  with  delight; 
A  cheek  wherein,  for  interchange  of  hue, 
A  wrangling  strife  'twixt  lily  and  the  rose ; 
Her  eyes  two  twinkling  stars  in  winter  nights. 
When  chilling  frosts  do  clear  the  azure  sky. 
Thine  eyes  and  cheek  proclaim  thee.  Lady  Anne, 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May. 
Your  spirits  shine  through  you. 

A  virtuous  maid.  {Speaking  to  himself.) 

O  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  thou  art ! 

Anne  B.  Well,  better  wits  have  worn  plain  statute  caps. 

King.  If  you  deny  to  dance,  let's  hold  more  chat. 

Anne  B.  In  private  then. 

King.  I  am  best  pleas'd  with  that.    {They  ivithdraw .) 

Lord.  White-handed    mistress,    one  sweet  word;  with 
thee. 

La.  Ma.  Honey,  and  milk,  and  sugar ;  there  is  three. 

Lord.  ISTay  then,  two  treys, — and  if  you  grow  so  nice, — 
Metheglin,  wort,  and  malmsey — well  run  dice — 
There's  half  a  dozen  sweets. 

La.  Ma.   Seventh  sweet,  adieu: 
Since  you  can  cog,  I'll  play  no  more  with  you. 

Lord.   One  word  in  secret. 

La,.  Ma.  Let  it  not  be  sweet. 

Lord.   Thou  griev'st  my  gall. 

La.  Ma.   Gall  ?  bitter. 

Lord.  Therefore  meet. 

L.  San.  The  tongues  of  mocking  wenches  are  as  keen 
As  is  the  razor's  edge  invisible, 


22  The  Tragedy  of 


Cutting  a  smaller  liair  than  may  be  seen ; 

Above  the  sense  of  sense ;  so  sensible 

Seemeth  their  conference,  their  conceits  have  wings. 

Lord.  Tune  on,  my  pipe,  the  praises  of  my  love, 
And,  'midst  thy  oaten  harmony,  recount 
How  fair  she  is  that  makes  thy  music  mount. 
And  every  string  of  thy  heart's  harp  to  move. 
Shall  I  compare  her  form  unto  the  sphere 
Whence  sun-bright  Venus  vaunts  her  silver  shine  ? 
Ah,  more  than  that,  by  just  compare,  is  thine 
Whose  crystal  looks  the  cloudy  heavens  do  clear. 

L.  Cham.  What  thing  is  love  ?    It  is  a  power  divine 
That  reigns  in  us,  or  else  a  wreakful  law 
That  dooms  our  minds  to  beauty  to  incline : 
It  is  a  star  whose  influence  doth  draw 
Our  hearts  to  love,  dissembling  of  his  might 
Till  he  be  master  of  our  hearts  and  sight. 

Card.  Love's  a  desire,  which,  for  to  wait  a  time 
Doth  lose  an  age  of  years  and  so  doth  pass, 
As  doth  the  shadow,  sever'd  from  his  prime. 
Seeming  as  though  it  were,  yet  never  was : 
Leaving  behind  naught  but  repentant  thoughts, 
Of  days  ill-spent,  for  that  which  profits  naught. 

L.  San.  Sweet  Lords,  who  sees  the  heavenly  Rosaline 
That — like  a  rude  and  savage  man  of  Ind, 
At  the  first  opening  of  the  gorgeous  east — 
Bows  not  his  vassal  head,  and  strooken  blind, 
Kisses  the  base  ground  with  obedient  breast  ? 
What  peremptory,  eagle-sighted  eye 
Dares  look  upon  the  heaven  of  her  brow, 
That  is  not  blinded  by  her  majesty  ? 

Sir  U.  Every  man  attach  tlie  hand  of  his  fair  mistress : 
We  will  with  some  strange  pastime  solace  them — 
Such  as  the  shortness  of  the  time  can  shape — 
For  revels,  dances,  masks,  and  merry  hours. 


Anne  Boleyn.  23 


Forerun  fair  Love  strewing  her  way  with  flowers. 

L.  Cham.  Ladies, 
To  entertain  your  thoughts  until  the  day, 
May  we  present  you  hourly  wdth  fresh  objects — 
And  delicate — pretty  and  pleasing  fancies 
In  you  t'*  beget.    May  you  on  pure  meats  feed, 
Easy  o'  concoction,  and  drink  that  that  will  turn 
Quickly  to  blood,  to  make  your  dreams  the  clearer, 
And  finer  your  imaginations. 

Enter  Genius,  Flora,  Venus  and  six  attendant  Nymphs. 

Genius. 
Eair  Venus,  lady-president  of  love. 
If  any  entertainment  in  this  place 
That  can  afford  but  homely,  rude,  and  base. 
It  please  your  godhead  to  accept  in  gree, 
That  gracious  thought  our  happiness  shall  be. 

Flora. 
And  we  will  wait,  wilh  all  observance  due, 
And  do  just  honor  to  this  heavenly  crew. 

(Strews  the  floor  with  flowers.) 
Venus. 
Yea,  my  delight  is  all  in  joyfulness. 
In  beds,  in  bowers,  in  banquets,  and  in  feasts. 

Enter  Cupid  in  Ms  chariot  guarded  ivith  the  mashers 
dressed  in  cloth  of  silver. 

SONG. 

0  hoiv  came  Love  that  is  himself  a  fire 

To  he  so  cold? 
Yes,  tyran  Money  cjuenches  all  desire. 

Or  makes  it  old. 
But  here  are  heautics  luill  revive 
Love's  youth  and  keep  his  heart  alive : 
As  often  as  his  torch  here  dies 
He  needs  hut  light  it  at  fresh  eyes. 


24  '  The  Tragedy  of 


Cupid. 
I  have  my  spirits  again  and  feel  mj  limbs. 
Away  with  this  cold  cloud  that  dims 
My  light.    Lie  there  my  furs  and  charms, 
Love  feels  the  heat  that  inward  warms 
And  guards  him  naked,  in  these  places 
As  at  his  birth,  or  'mongst  the  Graces. 

Venus. 
What  myster  wights  are  these,  and  whence  deriv'd, 
That  in  such  strange  disguisement  here  do  mask  ? 
And  by  what  accident  are  they  arriv'd  ? 

Cupid. 
Palmers  are  they,  their  feeble  hearts  wide  lanc'd 
With  cruel  wounds  of  love. 

Venus. 
Choose  where  thou  lov'st ; 
Be  she  as  fair  as  Love's  sweet  lady  is. 
She  shall  be  yours  if  that  will  be  your  bliss. 

{All  join  hands  and  dance.) 

1.  Mash.  If  I  profane  with  my  unworthiest  hand 
This  holy  shrine,  the  gentle  sin  is  this : 
My  lips,  two  blushing  pilgrims,  ready  stand 
To  smooth  that  rough  touch  with  a  tender  kiss. 

Lady.  Good  pilgrim. 
You  do  wrong  your  hand  too  much. 
Which  mannerly  devotion  shews  in  this, 
For  saints  have  hands  that  pilgrim  hands  do  touch, 
And  palm  to  palm  is  holy  palmer's  kiss. 

1.  Mask.  Have  not  saints  lips,  and  holy  palmers  too  ? 

Lady.  Ay,  pilgrim,  lips  that  they  must  use  in  prayer. 

1.  Mash.   O  then,  dear  saint,  let  lips  do  what  hands  do : 
They  pray — grant  thou,  lest  faith  turn  to  despair. 

Lady.   Saints  do  not  move,  though  grant  for  prayers' 
sake. 


Anne  Boleyn.  25 


1.  Mask.  Then  move  not  while  my  prayer's  effect  I 
take; 
Thns  from  my  lips,  by  thine,  my  sin  is  purg'cl. 

Lady.  Then  have  my  lips  the  sin  that  they  have  took. 
1.  Mask.  Sin  from  my  lips  'I    O  trespass  sweetly  urg'd : 
Give  me  my  sin  again. 

Lady.  You  kiss  by  th'  book. 

Anne  B.   Such  a  palmer  ne'er  was  seen 

'Less  Love  himself  had  palmer  been. 
Yet  for  all  he  is  so  quaint, 
Sorrow  did  his  visage  taint ; 
'Midst  the  riches  of  his  face, 
Grief  decipher'd  high  disgrace. 
Every  step  strain'd  a  tear ; 
Sudden  sighs  shew'd  his  fear ; 
And  yet  his  fear  by  his  sight 
Ended  in  a  strange  delight; 
That  his  passion  did  approve 
Weeds  and  sorrow  were  for  love. 
Sir  H.   The  gray-ey'd  Morn  smiles  on  the  frowning 
^^ight, 
Check'ring  the  cistern  clouds  with  streaks  of  light. 
And  darkness,  fleckled,  like  a  drunkard  reels 
From  forth  Day's  pathway  made  by  Titan's  wheels. 

King.  ISTow  ere  the  Sun  advance  his  burning  eye 
The  Day  to  cheer,  your  grace,  I  will  withdraw. 

Card.  Is  it  e'en  so  ?    Why  then  I  thank  you  all ; 
I  thank  you  honest  gentlemen,  good  night ; 
Good  night,  sweet  Prince,  good  night;  good  night,  sweet 

ladies ; 
Good  night,  good  night.  (Exeunt.) 


26  The  Tragedij  of 


Scena  Quarta. 


Enter  Sm  John  Russell,  and  Thomas  Wyat.     To  them  enter 

Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk,  the  Earl  of 

Surrey  and  the  Lord  Chamberlain. 


Sir  J.  Young  Thomas  Wjat,  you  have  at  large  receiv'd 
The  danger  of  the  task  you  undertake  ? 

Wyat.  I  have,  Sir  John,  and  with  embolden'd  soul 
Think  death  no  hazard  in  this  enterprise. 

Sir  J.  Is  ow  by  the  honor  of  my  ancestry, 
I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Thomas  Wyat. 

Wyat.  I  thank  you,  sir :  the  great  desire  I  have 
To  see  fair  Padua,  nursery  of  arts, 
Pisa  and  Florence,  fruitful  Lombardy — 
The  pleasant  garden  of  great  Italy — 
Moves  me,  and  by  my  father's  love  I'm  arm'd 
With  his  good  will  and  your  good  company. 

Sir  J.  I  am  in  all  affected  as  yourself, 
Glad  that  you  thus  continue  your  resolve, 
That  th'  money  and  the  matter  both  at  once 
May  be  deliver'd. 

Wyat.  Open  the  matter  to  me. 

Sir  J.  This  Cardinal  doth,  as  an  argument 
Of  the  king's  merit  towards  the  Holy  See, 
To  the  Pope's  use,  great  sums  of  money  levy 
Within  this  land — 

Sur.  Not  for  that  neither,  but 
To  furnish  RomCj  and  to  prepare  the  ways 
He  hath  for  dignities. 

Norf.  'Tis  the  King-Cardinal ! 
That  blind  priest,  like  the  eldest  son  of  Fortune, 
Turns  what  he  list.     The  king  will  know  him  one  day. 


Anne  Boleyn.  27 


Suff.  Pray  God  he  do. 

Norf.  How  holily  he  works 
In  all  his  business  !  and  with  what  zeal ! 

L.  Cham.  lie  will  have  all,  I  think. 

Norf.  We  had  need  pray, 
And  heartily,  for  our  deliverance, 
Or  this  imperious  man  will  work  us  all 
Trom  princes  into  pages :  all  men's  honors 
Lie  like  one  lump  before  him,  to  be  f ashion'd 
Into  what  pitch  he  please. 

L.  Cham.  It  is  most  true.  (Exeunt.) 

Enter  Cardinal  Wolsey. 

Card.  Here  comes  the  holy  legate  of  the  Pope. 
Enter  the  Nuncio. 

Nun.  Hail,  _you  anointed  deputy  of  Heaven ! 

Card.  You're  welcome,  my  most  learned,  reverend  sir. 

Nun.  The  king  is  full  of  grace  and  fair  regard  ? 
And  a  true  lover  of  the  Holy  Church  ? 

Card.  His  majesty  doth  seem  indifferent. 
Or  rather,  swaying  more  upon  our  part 
Than  cherishing  the  exhibiters  against  us. 
The  custom  of  request  you  have  discharg'd. 
Upon  our  spiritual  convocation ; 
And  in  regard  of  causes  now  in  hand — 
And  for  these  great  affairs  do  ask  some  charge — 
Toward  our  assistance  he  shall  make  assurance 
Of  greater  sums  than  I  have  promised. 
So  shall  you  quietly  enjoy  your  hope 
Of  thirty  thousand  ducats  English  gold. 

Nun.  The  j^eacc  of  Heaven  be  thine.  (Exeunt.) 


28  The  Tragedy  of 


Scena  Quinta. 


Enter  Kino  and  Cardinal  Wolsey. 


Card.  My  Liege, 
It  multiplies  the  courtesy 
To  do  it  with  good  words  and  speedily. 

King.  Give  me  some  little  breath,  some  pause,  dear 
lord, 
Before  I  positively  speak  in  this : 
I  will  resolve  you  herein  presently. 

Card.  1  cannot  tell,  if  to  depart  in  silence, 
Or  bitterly  to  speak  in  your  reproof, 
Best  fitteth  my  degree,  or  your  condition. 
If  I  shoidd  speak  of  dangerous  consequence 
Which  want  upon  you  might  reverberate. 
It  might  to  you  have  shew  of  secret  menace ; 
T'  be  silent  is  more  safe  and  politic ; 
To  speak,  perhaps,  more  honest  and  more  loving. 
This  I  do  hold  work  of  great  piety — 
A  work  indeed  of  most  great  consequence — 
That  we  be  in  our  generation  wise, 
And  that  the  watchful,  silent  night  be  us'd 
As  well  for  sowing  of  good  seed  as  tares. 

King.  But  the  reproach  will  lie  upon  yourself. 
If  'tis  not  rightly  carried. 

Card.  I  warrant  you ; 
But  tliis  give  leave  to  say,  Busscll  and  Wyat 
Will  undertake  it. 

King.  And  will  they  undertake 
To  do  me  good  ? 

Card.  This  they  have  promis'd,  sir : 
They  shall  be  ready  at  your  Highness'  will. 


Anne  Boleyn.  29 


King.  'Tis  a  good  rOiincl  sum. 

Card.  I  do  expect  return  {Speaking  to  himself.) 

Of  thrice  three  times  the  value.  {Exeunt.) 


Actus  Secundus.     Scena  Prima. 


Enter  Cardinal.  Wolsey  and  Earl  of  Northumberland. 


Card.  My  Lord  Korthumberlaud, 
We  license  your  departure  Avith  your  son. 

North.   Your  grace,  I  urg'd  it:  then  his  cheek  look'd 
pale, 
And  on  my  face  he  turn'd  an  eye  of  death, 
Trembling  ev'n  at  the  name  of  fair  Anne  Boleyn. 

Card.  She  dotes  as  much  on  him,  but  yet  his  majesty. 
By  reason  of  many  impediments, 
Will  not  give  his  consent.     What  s]iall  we  do 
In  such  a  case  ? 

North.  Make  him  forsake  her. 

Card.  'Tis  opjDOsite  to  nature — ought  not  t'  be  so, 
For  her  he  loves  and  she  is  rich  and  fair. 
It  lies  in  you,  my  lord,  to  save  your  word, 
For  by  his  trumpets  I  know  the  king  doth  come. 

Flourish.     Enter  King. 

Be  confident  to  speak,  ISTorthumberland, 

We  three  are  but  thyself,  and  speaking  so 

Thy  words  are  but  as  thoughts  ;  therefore  be  bold. 

King.  ^STorthumberland,  I  hold  thee  reverently; 
Welcome,  my  lord,  to  this  brave  town.     I  joy 
Your  noble  company. 


30  The  Tragedy  of 


North.  My  gracious  Liege,  " 
Of  much  less  value  is  my  company 
Than  your  good  words. 

King.  Marry,  what  think  you,  coz', 
Of  this  young  Percy's  pride  ?     He's  mad  in  folly. 

North.  This  I  must  say,  my  Liege,  she  is  a  lady 
Whose  beauty  doth  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes,  whose  words  all  ears  take  captive, 
Whose  dear  perfection,  hearts  that  scorn  to  serve 
Humbly  call  mistress.  {The  King  frowns.) 

King.  What  says  he  ?     Have  you  spoke  ? 

North.  All  that  he  is  hath  reference  to  your  Highness, 
But  I  have  sent  for  him  to  answer  this. 

King.  Then  shall  we  have  fair  Anne. 

{Speaking  to  himself.) 
I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all. 
Though  my  revenges  were  high  bent  upon  him, 
And  watch'd  the  time  to  shoot.     Well,  call  him  hither : 
We  are  reconcil'd,  and  the  first  view  shall  kill 
All  repetition :  let  him  not  ask  our  pardon, 
The  nature  of  his  great  offence  is  dead, 
And  deeper  than  oblivion  we  do  bury 
Th'  incensing  relics  of  it.     But  who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  H.  Percy. 

North.  It  is  my  son,  young  Harry  Percy,  sir. 

King.  My  Lord  IsTorthumberland,  let  him  approach, 
A  stranger  no  offender,  and  inform  him 
So  'tis  our  will  he  should. 

North.  I  shall,  my  Liege. 

King.  So  stand  thou  forth. 

Percy.  My  high  repented  blames, 
Dear  sovereign,  pardon  to  me. 

King.  All's  well  excus'd. 
There  is  a  fair  behavior  in  thee,  Percy, 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 


Anne  Boleyn.  31 


Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  tliee 

I  will  believe  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 

With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 

That  thou  didst  love  her  strikes  some  scores  away 

From  the  great  'compt :  but  love  that  comes  too  late, 

Like  a  remorseful  pardon  slowly  carried. 

To  the  great  sender  turns  a  sour  offence. 

As  hot  Lord  Percy  is  on  fire  to  go. 

Take  him  away,  my  lord. 

North.   Come  on  my  son. 
In  whom  my  house's  name  must  be  digested. 

Card.  Yea,  there  thou  mak'st  me  sad,  and  mak'st  me 
sin, 
In  envy  that  my  Lord  ^N^orthumberland 
Should  be  the  father  of  so  blest  a  son — 
A  son,  who  is  the  theme  of  Honor's  tongue ; 
Amongst  a  grove,  the  very  straightest  plant ; 
Who  is  sweet  Fortune's  minion  and  her  pride. 

King.  Apt,  in  good  faith,  very  apt :  well  go  thy  way, 
And  fare  thee  well,  JSTorthumberland ;  farewell. 

{Exeunt  Northumherland  and  his  son  with  the  Cardinal.) 

Manet  King. 

I'll  do  my  best  to  woo  your  lady,  Percy. 
She  is  a  pearl :  but  how  may  I  avoid — 
Although  my  will  distaste  what  it  elected — 
The  wife  I  chose  ?     Ah,  no :  in  terms  of  choice 
I  was  not  solely  led  by  nice  discretion. 
I  swear,  the  lottery  of  my  destiny 
Barr'd  me  the  right  of  voluntary  choosing : 
But,  if  my  father  had  not  scanted  me, 
And  hedg'd  me  by  his  wit,  to  yield  myself — 
Though  not  without  some  reluctation  such 
As  could  be  in  those  years,  for  I  was  not 
Twelve  years  of  age— to  be  contracted  thus 


32  The  Tragedy  of 


With  Princess  Katlierine,  my  election 

Had  been  the  Archduke's  daughter — no  evasion 

To  blench  from  that,  and  to  stand  firm  by  honor. 

He-enter  Wolsey. 
Would  I  had  never  married  with  tlie  queen. 

Card.  Ha !     But  I  pray  you,  sir,  are  you  fast 
married  ? 

King.  Be  assur'd  of  this. 

Card.   The  marriage  is  not  lawful. 
As  marriage  binds,  blood  breaks ;  and  Katherine, 
The  widow  to  Prince  Arthur,  could  not,  sir, 
According  to  our  law — i'  th'  W^ord  of  God 
Immediately  provided  in  that  case — 
Become  thy  wife. 

King.  Xay,  the  main  question  is. 
The  plentitude  o'  th'  Pope's  pow'r  of  dispensing. 

Card.   The  Pope  is  dispensator,  of  a  truth. 
But  ne'ertheless  sin  lies  at  door,  my  Lord, 
And  conscience  to  accuse  us  is  alone 
A  thousand  witnesses ;  continual  tester 
To  give  in  evidence,  a  jury  to  impanel 
T'  examine  us,  and  to  cry  guilty,  guilty ; 
A  persecutor  with  an  hue  and  cry 
To  follow ;  an  apparitor  to  summon  us ; 
Bailiff  to  carry  us ;  sergeant  to  arrest ; 
Attorney  ready  still  'gainst  us  to  plead ; 
A  jailor  to  torment  and  judge  t'  condemn. 
The  five  grand  miseries  in  Aristotle — 
^N^eed,  ignominy,  sickness,  enmity. 

And  death — may  grind  our  souls ;  but  this  of  conscience, 
Accusing  still,  denouncing  and  molesting. 
Is  greatest  torture.     Ah,  your  Majesty, 
A  galled  conscience  is  another  hell. 

King.  Ay,  ay,  at  last  this  conscience  doth  arrest  us, 
Respecting  this  our  marriage  with  the  queen, 


Anne  Boleyn.  33 


The  dowager,  sometime  our  brother's  wife. 

Card.  After  many  pleasant  days  and  merry  tides, 
Most  fortunate  adventures,  good  my  Liege, 
A  fearful  visitation  oft  doth  follow : 
The  devil  that  then  told  you  'twas  no  sin, 
Or  light,  if  sin  at  all,  now  aggravates 
And  telleth  you  that  an  offence  it  is 
Most  irremissible,  as  erst  by  Judas 
And  Cain  he  did  to  bring  them  to  despair. 
Your  Majesty,  there  is  a  ]Sremesis, — 
It  cannot  choose  but  grieve  and  trouble  you. 

King.  No  tongue  can  tell,  no  heart  conceive  my  pain. 
'Tis  tedious,  irksome,  an  epitome  of  hell, 
An  extract,  a  quintessence,  a  compound, 
A  mixture  of  all  feral  maladies, 
Tyrannical  tortures,  plagues,  perplexities. 
There  is  no  sickness  almost  but  that  physic 
For  it  provideth  straightway  remedy ; 
To  every  sore,  chirurgery  will  provide 
A  salve ;  friendship  helps  poverty ;  and  hope 
Of  liberty  easeth  imprisonment ; 
Favor  and  suit  do  banishment  revoke ; 
Authority  and  time  wear  out  reproach : 
But  what  known  physic,  what  chirurgery. 
What  w^ealth,  what  favor,  wdiat  authority. 
Can  e'er  relieve,  bear  out,  assuage,  expel, 
A  troubled  conscience  ? 

Card.  Resolution 
Of  a  divorce,  my  Lord,  is  not  unworthy 
Your  Majesty's  consideration. 
The  sin  must  be  corrected — counterpois'd. 

King.  I  do  desire  the  like. 

Card.  My  chance  is  now  {Speaking  to  himself.) 

To  use  it  for  my  time. 
My  Lord,  a  brother 


34  The  Tragedy  of 


Of  gracious  order's  late  come  from  the  See 
In  special  business  for  his  Holiness. 

King.  What  news  abroad  i'  th'  world  ? 

Card.   Colonna's  brought 
A  trembling  upon  Rome,  such  as  was  never 
S'  incapable  of  help ;  and  desperation 
Is  all  the  policy,  strength,  and  defence 
That  Rome  can  make  against  him. 
Through  all  estates  I  find  that  he  hath  pass'd 
And  wrought  such  spoil,  such  havoc,  and  such  theft, 
That  endless  were  to  tell;  into  the  cloisters 
O'  th'  monasteres  ^vith  might  and  main  hath  broken, 
Through  which  the  monks  he  here  and  there  pursueth, 
And  searcheth  all  their  cells,  regarding  naught 
Religion  nor  their  holy  hest.     From  thence 
Into  the  sacred  Church  he  now  hath  broken. 
Hath  robb'd  the  chancel,  and  the  altar  foul'd. 
And  treadeth  under  foot  her  holy  things. 
Old  monuments  and  books  are  burn'd  like  straw, 
Relics  and  costly  pictures  are  def  ac'd, 
Rich  hangings,  carpets,  tramj)led  in  the  dirt ; 
The  holy  saints  of  their  rich  vestiments 
He  hath  disrob'd ;  of  their  habiliments, 
Despoil'd  the  priests ;  and  all  that  he  could  find — 
By  right  or  wrong — made  spoil  or  cast  to  ground. 
All  is  confounded  and  disorder'd  there. 

King.  And  v/here  is  Clement  ? 

Card.  The  Pope,  your  Majesty, 
And  divers  cardinals  at  Saint  Angelo 
Were  there  surpris'd  and  taken  prisoners. 

King.  Upon  thine  honor  is  he  prisoner  ? 

Card.  Upon  mine  honor  he  is  prisoner. 

King.  O  blood-bespotted  ISTeapolitan ! 
You  will  we  circumvent  and  subjugate. 
My  good  Lord  Cardinal,  this  and  what  needful  else 


Anne  Boleyn.  35 


That  call'st  upon  us  bj  the  grace  of  Grace, 
We  will  perform  in  measure,  time,  and  place. 

{Cardinal  about  to  withdraw.) 
Nay,  go  not  from  us  thus. 

Card.  Here  is  Sir  John. 
Give  him  direction  how  he  shall  proceed. 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight. 

Enter  Sir  John  Russell. 

8ir  J.   Sir  John  stands  to  his  word. 

Card.  Welcome,  Sir  John : 
Thou  bring'st  me  happiness  and  peace. 

King.  My  lord, 
Depart  the  chamber,  leave  us  here  alone. 

(Exit  Cardinal.) 
By  cold  gradation  and  well-balanc'd  form, 
We  shall  proceed  with  Clement. 

Sir  J.  Give  him  gold ; 
And  though  authority  be  a  stubborn  bear. 
Yet  is  he  oft  led  by  the  nose  with  gold. 
The  question  is  concerning  your  own  marriage  ? 

King.  Ay,  there's  the  point :  but  this  is  not  the 
question 
You  may  discuss,  look  you. 

Sir  J.  Marry,  is  it. 
The  very  point  of  it. 

King.  IsTo ;  'tis  a  secret 
That  must  be  lockt  within  the  teeth  and  lips. 
Exactly  do  all  points  of  my  command. 

Sir  J.  To  the  syllable. 

King.  You  shall  first,  Sir  John,  receive 
The  sum  of  money  which  I  promised 
Should  be  deliver'd  to  his  Holiness. 
He  hath  pluckt  on  France  to  give  him  annual  tribute ; 
Take  that,  the  Pope  to  strengthen  and  support. 


36  The  Tragedy  of 


Sir  J.  Ay,  that  I  will. 

King.  And  so  to  jSTaples  say, 
"Stay  thy  revengeful  hand  and  stand  in  awe: 
Live  in  subjection  to  the  See  of  Rome." 

Enter  Cardinal. 

Card.  My  gracious  Lord, 
Here  is  the  bag  of  gold. 

King.  Here  is  the  money,  good  Sir  John,  in  hand. 

Sir  J.  And  it  is  meet  I  presently  set  forth. 

King.  Farewell. 

Sir  J.   Farewell,  my  Lord.  {Exit.) 

King.   O  place  and  greatness,  millions  of  false  eyes 
Are  stuck  upon  thee !     Volumes  of  report 
]Run  with  these  false  and  most  contrarious  quests 
Upon  thy  doings :  thousand  escapes  of  wit 
Make  thee  the  father  of  their  idle  dream. 
And  rack  thee  in  their  fancies. 
Come  let's  go. 


Scena  Secunda. 


Enter  Percy,  solus. 


The  sweet  content  of  men  that  live  in  love. 
Breeds  fretting  humors  in  a  restless  mind ; 
For  lordly  Love  is  such  a  tyrant  fell 
That  where  he  rules  all  power  he  doth  expel ; 
And  Fancy,  being  check'd  by  Fortune's  spite. 
Grows  too  impatient  in  her  sweet  desires ; 
Sweet  to  those  men  whom  Love  leads  on  to  bliss, 


Anne  Boleyn.  3Y 


But  sour  to  me  whose  hap  is  still  amiss. 
Yet  howsoe'er  I  love  I  must  be  wise. 
Canst  thou  brook  any  rivals  in  thy  love  ? 
She  hath  another  lover.     She  is  gone. 
I  am  abus'd  and  my  relief  must  be 
To  loathe  her.     I  had  rather  be  a  toad 
And  live  upon  the  vapors  of  a  dungeon, 
Than  keep  a  corner  in  the  thing  I  love 
For  others'  uses.     Ha  !  look  where  she  comes. 

Enter  Anne  Boleyn. 

If  she  be  false,  Heaven  mockt  itself : 
I'll  not  believe  it.     My  life  upon  her  faith  ! 
Come  Anne,  I've  but  an  hour  to  spend  with  thee : 
We  must  obey  the  time. 

Anne  B.  What  say'st  thou,  noble  heart  ? 

Percy.  What  will  I  do  think' st  thou  ?    What  should 
I  do? 

Anne  B.  Pine  not  away  for  that  which  cannot  be. 

Percy.  I  cannot  joy  in  any  earthly  bliss, 
So  lo7ig  as  I  do  want  mv  fairest  Anne. 

Anne  B.  It  gives  me  wonder  great  as  my  content 
To  see  you  here  before  me. 

Percy.  O  my  soul's  joy  ! 
If  after  every  tempest  come  such  calms, 
May  the  winds  blow  till  they  have  waken'd  Death ! 
I  cannot  speak  enough  of  this  content. 
It  stops  me  here.     If  it  were  now  to  die, 
'Twere  now  to  be  most  happy ;  for,  I  fear. 
My  soul  hath  her  content  so  absolute. 
That  not  another  comfort  like  to  this 
Succeeds  in  unkno^vn  fate. 

Anne  B.  The  heavens  forbid 
But  that  our  loves  and  comforts  should  increase. 
Even  as  our  days  do  grow. 


38  The  Tragedy  of 


Percy.  Amen  to  that. 
Sweet  Powers,  it  is  too  much  of  joy ;  and  this, 
And  this,  the  greatest  discords  be,  that  e'er 
Our  hearts  shall  make.     Have  patience,  gentle  Anne. 

Anne  B.  I  must  where  is  no  remedy.  Lord  Percy. 

Percy.  When  possibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 

Anne  B.  If  you  turn  not,  you  will  return  the  sooner : 
Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  dear  Anne's  sake. 

Percy.  Why  then  we'll  make  exchange ;  here  take  you 
this. 

Anne  B.  And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss. 

Percy.  Here  is  my  hand,  for  my  true  constancy : 
And  when  that  hour  o'erslips  me  in  the  day. 
Wherein,  dear  Anne,  I  sigh  not  for  thy  sake. 
The  next  ensuing  hour,  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness. 
My  father  stays  my  coming — answer  not — 
The  tide  is  now ;  nay,  not  thy  tide  of  tears, 
That  tide  will  stay  me  longer  than  I  should. 
My  Anne,  farewell :  what,  gone  without  a  word  ? 

{Exit  Anne  Boleyn.) 
Ay,  so  true  love  should  do :  it  cannot  speak. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Ser.  Sir  Harry,  you  are  stay'd  for. 

Percy.  Go :  I  come,  I  come :  (Exit  Servant.) 

Alas,  this  j^arting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb. 
And  will  she  bend  her  thouglits  to  change  ?     Unkind  ! 
O  Percy,  what  contrarious  thoughts  be  these 
That  flock  with  doubtful  motions  to  thy  mind  ? 
Anne  Boleyn — ah,  that  sweet  and  heavenly  name, 
Life  to  my  life  and  essence  to  my  joy ! — 
Yet  shepherds  in  their  songs  of  solace  sing 
Anne  Boleyn  now  doth  love  none  but  the  king.  (Exit.) 


Anne  Boleyn.  39 


Scena  Tertia. 


Enter  Lady  Rochford  and  Anne  Boleyn. 


La.  Roch.  Fair  Anne,  if  you  might  choose  the  greatest 
good, 
'Midst  all  the  world  in  blessings  that  abound, 
Wherein,  my  daughter,  should  your  liking  be  ? 

Anne  B.  JSIot  in  delights,  nor  pomp,  nor  majesty. 

La.  Roch.  And  why  ? 

Anne  B.  Since  these  are  means  to  draw  the  mind 
From  perfect  good,  and  make  true  judgment  blind. 

La.  Roch.  ]\Light  you  have  wealth  and  Fortune's 
richest  store ! 

A7ine  B.  Yet  would  I,  might  I  choose,  be  honest  poor ; 
For  she  that  sits  at  Fortune's  feet  a-low 
Is  sure  she  shall  not  taste  a  further  woe. 
But  those  that  prank  on  top  of  Fortune's  ball 
Still  fear  a  change,  and  fearing,  catch  a  fall. 
Poor  and  content  is  rich  and  rich  enough. 
But  riches  fineless  is  as  poor  as  winter 
To  him  that  ever  fears  he  shall  be  poor. 

La.  Roch.  But  Anne,  dear,  you  are  fair,  and  beauty 
shines 
And  seemeth  best  where  pomp  her  pride  refines. 
You've,  too,  a  woman's  heart  which  ever  yet 
Affected  eminence,  wealth,  sovereignty. 

Anne  B.  IsTay,  by  my  troth,  I  would  not  be  a  queen, 
'No,  not  for  all  the  riches  under  heaven. 
I  swear  'tis  better  to  be  lowly  born 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content. 
I  would  not  be  a  queen  for  all  the  world. 


40  The  Tragedy  of 


La.  Roch.  Tut,  foolish  maid,  each  one  contemneth 
need. 

Anne  B.  Good  reason  whj,  they  know  not  good 
indeed. 

La.  Roch.  Many  marry,  then,  on  whom  distress  doth 
lour. 

Anne  B.  Yes,  they  that  virtue  deem  an  honest  dower. 
Madam,  by  right  this  world  I  may  compare 
Unto  my  work,  wherein  with  heedful  care 
The  heavenly  workman  plants  with  curious  hand. 
As  I  with  needle  draw  each  thing  on  land. 
Even  as  he  list :  some  men  like  to  the  rose 
Are  f ashion'd  fresh ;  some  in  their  stalks  do  close. 
And,  born,  do  sudden  die ;  some  are  but  weeds. 
And  yet  from  them  a  secret  good  proceeds : 
I  with  my  needle,  if  I  please,  may  blot 
The  fairest  rose  within  my  cambric  plot ; 
God  with  a  beck  can  change  each  worldly  thing. 
The  poor  to  rich,  the  beggar  to  the  king. 

La.  Roch.  Peace  Anne,  for  here  are  strangers  near  at 
hand. 

Etiter  Messenger  with  letters. 

Mes.  Madam,  God  speed. 

La.  Roch.  I  thank  you  gentle  squire. 

{Anne  offers  to  go  out.) 

Mes.   Stay,  courteous  ladies ;  favor  me  so  much 
As  to  discourse  a  word  or  two  apart. 

La.  Roch.  Good  sir,  my  daugliter  learns  this  rule  of 
me. 
To  shun  resort  and  strangers'  company ; 
For  some  are  shifting  mates  that  carry  letters. 
Some,  such  as  you,  too  good  because  our  betters. 

Mes.  Behold,  fair  lady,  to  assure  your  stay, 
I  here  present  the  signet  of  the  king. 


Anne  Boleyn.  41 


Who  now  by  me,  O  fairest  Anne,  salutes  you : 
And  since  in  secret  I  have  certain  things 
In  his  behalf,  good  madam,  to  impart, 
I  crave  your  daughter  to  discourse  apart. 

La.  Roch.   She  shall  in  humble  duty  be  addrest 
To  do  his  highness'  will  in  what  she  may. 

Anne  B.  ISTow,  gentle  sir,  what  would  his  grace  with 
me  ? 

Mes.  Fair,  comely  nymph,  the  beauty  of  your  face. 
Sufficient  to  bewitch  the  Heavenly  Powers, 
Hath  wrought  so  much  in  him  that  now  of  late 
He  finds  himself  made  captive  unto  love ; 
For  though  his  power  and  majesty  require 
A  straight  command  before  an  humble  suit. 
Yet  he  his  mightiness  doth  so  abase 
As  to  entreat  your  favor,  honest  maid. 

Anne  B.  Is  he  not  married,  sir,  unto  our  queen  ? 

Mes.  He  is. 

Anne  B.  And  are  not  they  by  God  accurst 
That  sever  them  whom  he  hath  knit  in  one  ? 

Mes.  They  be :  what  then  ?  we  seek  not  to  displace 
The  princess  from  her  seat ;  but,  since  by  love 
The  king  is  made  your  own,  he  is  resolv'd 
In  private  to  accept  your  dalliance. 
In  spite  of  war,  or  watch,  or  worldlj^  eye. 

Anne  B.   O,  how  he  talks  !  as  if  he  should  not  die  ! 
As  if  that  God  in  justice  once  could  wink 
Upon  that  fault  I  am  asham'd  to  think ! 

Mes.  He  shall  erect  your  state  and  wed  you  well. 

Anne  B.  But  can  his  warrant  keep  my  soul  from  hell  ? 

Mes.  He  will  enforce  if  you  resist  his  suit. 

Anne  B.  'Tis  vain  allurement  that  doth  make  him 
love; 
I  shame  to  hear,  be  you  asham'd  to  move. 

Mes.  Will  you  despise  the  king  and  scorn  him  so  ? 


42  The  Tragedy  of 


Anne  B.  In  all  allegiance  I  wonld  serve  his  grace, 
But  not  in  lust :  O,  how  I  blush  to  name  it ! 
So  counsel  him,  but  soothe  thou  not  his  sin. 

Mes.  Will  you  not,  madam,  grant  his  highness  this  ? 

Anne  B.  As  I  have  said,  in  duty  I  am  his : 
My  mind  will  never  grant  what  I  perceive 
His  highness  aims  at.     It  doth  ill  beseem  him. 

Mes.  I  see  this  labor  lost,  my  hope  in  vain ; 

(Speahing  to  himself.) 
Yet  will  I  try  another  drift  again. 
Say  that  King  Henry  take  thee  for  his  queen. 

An7ie  B.  'Tis  better  said  than  done,  my  gracious  lord. 
I  am  a  subject  fit  to  jest  withal, 
But  far  unfit  to  be  a  sovereign. 
Tell  him,  "I  am  too  mean  to  be  your  queen. 
And  yet  too  good  to  be  your  concubine." 

Mes.  Answer  no  more,  for  thou  shalt  be  his  queen. 
An  endless  work  is  this :  how  should  I  frame  it  ? 

(Speaking  to  himself.     Exeunt.) 


Scena  Quarta. 


Enter  the  King  and  Bishop.    The  Gentlemen  of  the 
Privy  Council  go  out. 


King.  When  such  grim  sirs  are  gone,  I  see  no  let 
To  work  my  will. 

Bish.  What !  like  the  eagle,  then. 
With  often  flight  wilt  thou  thy  feathers  lose  ? 


Anne  Boleyn.  43 


O  King,  canst  thou  endure  to  see  tlij  court 

Of  finest  wits  and  judgments  dispossest, 

Whilst  cloaking  craft  with  soothing  climbs  so  high 

As  each  bewails  ambition  is  so  bad  ? 

Thy  father  left  thee  with  estate  and  crown, 

And  learned  counsel  to  direct  thy  course : 

These  carelessly,  O  King,  thou  castest  off 

To  entertain  a  train  of  sycophants. 

Thou  well  mayst  see,  although  thou  wilt  not  see, 

That  every  eye  and  ear  both  sees  and  hears — 

The  certain  signs  of  thine  incontinence. 

Thou  art  allied  unto  the  emperor 

By  marriage ;  a  happy  friend  indeed. 

If  used  well,  if  not,  a  mighty  foe. 

Thinketh  your  Grace,  he  can  endure  and  brook 

To  have  a  partner  in  Queen  Katherine's  love  ? 

Thinketh  your  Grace,  the  grudge  of  privy  wrongs 

Will  not  procure  him  change  his  smiles  to  threats  ? 

O  be  not  blind  to  good,  call  home  your  lords. 

Love,  and  with  kindness  take  your  wedlock  wife ; 

Or  else,  which  God  forbid,  I  fear  a  change : 

Sin  cannot  thrive  in  courts  without  a  plague. 

King.  Yea,  but  thou  urgest  me  again,  my  lord, 
To  persevere  in  sin,  and  to  do  worse. 
By  my  own  weakness  and  my  willfulness, 
Than  e'er  I  did  before,  for  Katherine, 
The  dowager — how  often  shall  T  say  it  ? — 

Bish.  Thy  sometime  brother's  wife 
With  her  companion,  Grief,  must  end  her  life. 

King.  Ay ;  both  the  seal  of  faith  and  marriage-bed 
Were  sinful  facts,  and  you  may  read  at  large 
The  law  requires  obedience,  my  lord. 
Or  punishment.     I  say  'tis  God's  just  judgment 
In  bringing  these  calamities  upon  us, 
This  blindness  and  this  obstinacy  of  ours 


44  The  Tragedy  of 


To  punish,  and  chastise  us  for  our  sin. 
"If  thej  will  not  obej  the  Lord,"  we  read, 
''His  ordinances  and  His  commandments  keep, 
Then  all  these  curses  shall  upon  them  come : 
Cursed  in  the  town  and  in  the  field ;  cursed 
I'  th'  fruit  of  the  body."     jSTote  you :  her  male  issue 
Or  died  where  they  were  made,  or  shortly  after 
The  world  had  air'd  them. 

Bisli.  Yet  for  all  these  terrors 
Of  conscience,  and  affrighting  punishments, 
I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  despair. 
For  all  offences  there  are  dispensations, 
And  plenary  remission  of  all  sins ; 
So  gentle  and  so  parable  a  pardon. 
With  so  small  cost  and  suit  obtain'd — my  Lord, 
I  cannot  see  how  he  that  hath  such  friends. 
And  money  in  his  purse,  should  be  so  troubled. 
So  desperate,  or  any  way  miscarry. 
The  Church's  prayers  shall  make  you  prosperous. 

King.   The  Church  ?  where  is  it  ?  had  not  churchmen 
pray'd, 
This  scrupulous  conscience  had  not  tortur'd  us. 

Bisli.  You  know  that  I  am  legate  to  the  Pope, 
Then  may  I  speak  my  conscience  in  the  cause. 
On  your  allegiance  to  the  See  of  Rome, 
Subscribe  unto  his  judgment. 

King.  Nay,  your  grace, 
Sans  scandal  to  the  Holy  See  of  Kome, 
Our  scruple  to  the  voice  of  Christendom 
'Tis  fit  we  should  commit. 

Bisli.  Ay,  it  is  fit 
For  your  Majesty  only. 

King.  So  I  say :  'tis  fit. 

Bisli.  Is  there  no  derogation  in  it  ? 

King.  None. 


Anne  Boleyn.  45 


Bish.  You  cannot  derogate,  my  Lord  ? 

King.  I  think, 
Not  easily. 

Bish.  What  your  good  pleasure  will, 
My  Lord,  that  follow :  be  it  far  from  me 
To  take  exceptions  'youd  my  privilege. 

King.  The  truth  by  trial  only  may  be  found. 

{Exeunt.) 


Scena  Quinta. 


Enter  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  Suffolk,  the  Earl  of 
Surrey,  and  Lord  Chamberlain. 


Suf.  The  Cardinal's  letter  to  the  Pope  miscarried, 
And  came  to  th'  eye  o'  th'  king,  wherein  was  read. 
How  that  the  Cardinal  did  intreat  his  Holiness 
To  stay  the  judgment  o'  th'  divorce ;  for  if 
It  did  take  place,  I  do,  quoth  he,  perceive 
My  king  is  tangled  in  affection  to 
A  creature  of  the  queen's,  Lady  Anne  Boleyn. 

Su7\  Has  the  king  this  ? 

Suf.  Believe  it. 

8ur.  Will  this  work  ? 

L.  Cham.  The  king  in  this  perceives  him,  how  he 
coasts 
And  hedges  his  own  way.     But  in  this  point 
All  his  tricks  founder.     This  from  the  king's  mouth : 
"'Tis  only  title  thou  disdain's t  in  her,  the  which 
I  can  build  up :  strange  is  it  that  our  bloods 


46  The  Tragedy  of 


Of  color,  weight,  and  heat,  pour'd  all  together, 

Would  quite  confound  distinction,  yet  stand  off 

In  differences  so  mighty.     If  she  be 

All  that  is  virtuous — save  what  thou  dislik'st. 

Poor  Viscount  Kochf  ord's  daughter — tliou  dislik'st 

Of  virtue  for  the  name :  but  do  not  so. 

From  lowest  j)lace,  whence  virtuous  things  proceed, 

The  place  is  dignified  by  th'  doer's  deed. 

Where  great  additions  swell,  and  virtue  none, 

It  is  a  dropsied  honor.     Fair  Anne  Boleyn, 

I  can  create  the  rest :  virtue  and  thee 

Are  thine  own  dower :  honor  and  wealth  from  me." 

Bur.  Who  sail  by  her  are  sure  of  wind  at  will, 
Her  face  is  dangerous  and  her  sight  is  ill ; 
But  our  fond  king,  not  knowing  sin  in  lust. 
Makes  love  by  endless  means  and  precious  gifts : 
And  men  that  see  it,  dare  not  say't,  my  friend. 
But  we  may  wish  that  it  were  otherwise. 
And  yet,  in  sooth,  my  lord,  it  may  be  said 
The  king  hath  folly,  there's  virtue  in  the  maid. 

Suf.  But  tell  me,  my  Lord  Chamberlain,  is  the  maid 
Evil-inclin'd,  misled,  or  concubine 
Unto  the  king  or  any  other  lord  ? 

L.  Cham.  Should  I  be  brief  and  true,  then  thus,  my 
lord: 
All  England's  ground  yields  not  a  blither  lass, 
ISTor  Europe  can  surpass  her  for  her  gifts 
Of  virtue,  honor,  beauty  and  the  rest. 
This  may  be  left  to  some  ears  unrecounted. 
For  'tis  but  young,  my  lord ;  the  king  already 
Hath  married  the  fair  lady. 

8ur.  Would  he  had. 

Suf.  May  you  be  happy  in  your  wish,  my  lord. 
For  I  profess  you  have  it. 

Sur.  jSTow  all  my  joy 


Anne  Boleyn.  47 


Trace  the  conjunction. 

Suf.  My  amen  to  't. 

Nor.  All  men's. 

Suf.  There's  order  given  for  her  coronation : 
She  is  a  gallant  creature,  and  complete 
In  mind  and  feature.     I  persuade  me,  from  her 
Will  fall  some  blessing  on  this  land,  which  shall 
In  it  be  memoriz'd. 

Sur.  But  will  the  king- 
Digest  this  letter  of  the  Cardinal's  ? 
The  Lord  forbid. 

Nor.  Marry,  amen. 

Suf.  No,  no : 
There  be  moe  wasps  that  buzz  about  his  nose. 
Will  make  this  sting  the  sooner.     Cardinal  Campeius 
Is  stol'n  away  to  Rome  ;  hath  ta'en  no  leave ; 
Has  left  the  cause  o'  th'  king  unhandled,  and 
Is  posted  as  the  agent  of  our  Cardinal 
To  second  all  his  plot.     I  do  assure  you 
The  king  cried  ha  !  at  this. 

L.  Cham.  Now  God  incense  him. 
And  let  him  cry  ha  !  louder. 

Nor.  But,  my  lord, 
When  returns  Cranmer  ? 

Suf.  He  is  return'd  in  his  opinions,  which 
Have  satisfied  the  king  for  his  divorce. 
Together  with  all  famous  colleges. 
Almost,  in  Christendom:  shortly — I  believe — 
His  second  marriage  shall  be  publish'd,  and 
Her  coronation.    Katherine  no  more 
Shall  be  call'd  queen,  but  princess  dowager 
And  widow"  to  Prince  Arthur. 

Nor.   This  same  Cranmer's 
A  worthy  fellow,  and  hath  ta'en  much  pains 
In  the  king's  business. 


48  The  Tragedy  of 


Suf.  He  has,  and  we  shall  see  him 
Tor  it,  an  archbishop. 
No7:   So  I  hear. 

Suf.  'Tis  so. 

E7iter  Wolsey  and  Cromwell. 
The  Cardinal. 

Nor.  Observe,  observe,  he's  moody. 

L.  Cham.  Ay,  all  that  dare  look  into  these  affairs 
See  this  main  end,  the  French  king's  sister. 

All.  Ha! 

Card.  The  packet,  Cromwell, 
Gave't  you  the  king  ? 

Crom.  To  his  own  hand  in's  bed-chamber. 

Card.  Look'd  he  o'  th'  inside  of  the  paper  ? 

Crom.  Presently 
He  did  unseal  them,  and  the  first  he  view'd, 
He  did  it  with  a  serious  mind :  a  heed 
Was  in  his  countenance.     You  he  bade 
Attend  him  here  this  morning. 

Card.  Is  he  ready  to  come  abroad  ? 

Crom.  I  think  by  this  he  is. 

Card.  Leave  me  awhile.  {Exit  Cromivell.) 

It  shall  be  to  the  Duchess  of  Alencon, 
The  French  king's  sister ;  he  shall  marry  her. 
Anne  Boleyn  ?     Xo ;  I'll  no  Anne  Boleyns  for  him : 
There's  more  in't  than  fair  visage.     Boleyn  ? 
No  we'll  no  Boleyns. — Speedily  I  wish 
To  hear  from  Rome.     The  Marchioness  of  Pembroke  ? 

Nor.  He's  discontented. 

Suf.  Maybe  he  hears  the  king 
Does  whet  his  anger  to  him. 

Sur.   Sharp  enough. 
Lord,  for  thy  justice ! 

Card.  The  late  queen's  gentlewoman  ? 
A  knight's  daughter 


Anne  Boleyn.  49 


To  be  her  mistress'  mistress  ?  her  queen's  queen  ? 
This  candle  burns  not  clear, — 'tis  I  must  snuff  it, 
Then  out  it  goes.     What  though  I  know  her  virtuous 
And  well  deserving  ?  yet  I  know  her  for 
A  spleeny  Lutheran,  and  not  wholesome  to 
Our  cause.     That  she  should  lie  i'  th'  bosom  of 
Our  hard-rul'd  king !     Again,  there  is  sprung  up 
An  heretic,  an  arch  one — Cranmer — one 
Hath  crawl'd  into  the  favor  of  the  king, 
And  is  his  oracle. 

Nor.  He  is  vext  at  something. 

Suf.  The  king,  the  king.  \ 

Enter  King  reading  a  schedule. 

King.  How  now,  my  lords,  saw  you 
The  Cardinal  ? 

Nor.  My  Lord,  we  have  stood  here  '. 

Observing  him :  some  strange  commotion 
Is  in  his  brain. 

King.  It  may  well  be  there  is 
A  mutiny  in  his  mind.     ISTote  you ;  this  morning 
Papers  of  state  he  sent  me  to  peruse  i 

As  I  requir'd :  and  wot  you  what  I  found 
There — on  my  conscience  put  unwittingly  ? 
Forsooth  an  inventory,  thus  importing 
The  several  parcels  of  his  plate,  his  treasure, 
Rich  stuff  and  ornaments  of  household,  which 
I  find  at  such  proud  rate  that  it  outspeaks 
Possession  of  a  subject. 

Nor.  It's  Heaven's  will : 
Some  spirit  put  this  paper  in  the  packet 
To  bless  your  eye  withal. 

King.  Take  notice,  lords, 
He  has  a  loyal  breast. 

(Exit  King  frowning  upon  the  Cardinal,  to 
whom  he  hands  the  schedule. 


50  The  Tragedy  of 


Card.  What  should  this  mean  ? 
What  sudden  anger's  this  ?     How  have  I  reap'd  it  ? 
He  parted  frowning  from  me,  as  if  ruin 
Leap'd  from  his  eyes.     So  looks  the  chafed  lion 
Upon  the  daring  huntsman  that  has  gall'd  him, 
Then  makes  him  nothing.     I  must  read  this  paper : 
I  fear  the  story  of  his  anger.     'Tis  so : 
This  paper  has  undone  me :  'tis  th'  accompt 
Of  all  that  world  of  wealth  I  have  drawn  together 
For  mine  own  ends, — indeed  to  gain  the  Popedom, 
And  fee  my  friends  in  Rome. — O  negligence, 
Fit  for  a  fool  to  fall  by !     What  cross  divel 
Made  me  put  this  main  secret  in  the  packet 
I  sent  the  king  ?     Is  there  no  way  to  cure  this  ? 
jN'o  new  device  to  beat  this  from  his  brains  ? 
I  know  'twill  stir  him  strongly :  yet  I  know 
A  way,  if  it  take  right,  in  spite  of  fortune 
Will  bring  me  off  again.     What's  this  ?     To  th'  Pope  f 
The  letter — as  I  live — with  all  the  business 
I  writ  to's  Holiness.     J^ay  then,  farewell : 
I've  touch'd  the  highest  point  of  all  my  greatness. 
And  from  that  full  meridian  of  my  glory, 
I  haste  now  to  my  setting.     I  shall  fall 
Like  a  bright  exhalation  in  the  evening, 
And  no  man  see  me  more.     A  long  farewell ! 
This  is  the  state  of  man :  to-day  he  puts  forth 
The  tender  leaves  of  hopes ;  to-morrow,  blossoms. 
And  bears  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him : 
The  third  day  comes  a  frost,  a  killing  frost. 
And, — when  he  thinks,  good  easy  man,  full  surely 
His  greatness  is  a-ripening, — nips  his  root, 
And  then  he  falls  as  I  do.     I  have  ventur'd. 
Like  little  wanton  boys  that  swim  on  bladders. 


Anne  Boleyn.  51 


This  many  summers  in  a  sea  of  glory, 
But  far  beyond  my  depth :  my  high-blown  pride 
At  length  broke  under  me ;  and  now  has  left  me, 
Weary  and  old  with  service,  to  the  mercy 
Of  a  rude  stream  that  must  forever  hide  me. 
Vain  pomp,  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  ye ; 
I  feel  my  heart  new  open'd :     O  how  wretched 
Is  that  poor  man  that  hangs  on  princes'  favors ! 


{Exit) 


Actus  Tertius. 


Enter  Genius. 

Rise  Thamesis.     Up  thou  tame  River,  Avake, 
And  from  thy  liquid  limbs  this  slumber  shake ; 
Thou  drown'st  thyself  in  inofficious  sleep, 
And  these  thy  sluggish  waters  seem  to  creep. 
Rather  than  flow.     Up,  rise  and  swell  with  pride 
Above  thy  banks.     IvTow  is  not  every  tide.  (Exit.) 

Enter  Thamesis. 
To  what  vain  end  should  I  contend  to  show 
My  weaker  powers,  when  seas  of  pomp  o'erflow 
The  City's  face,  and  cover  all  the  shore 
With  sands  more  rich  than  Tagus'  wealthy  ore ; 
When  in  the  flood  of  joy  that  comes  with  him 
He  drowns  the  world,  yet  makes  it  live  and  swim 
And  spring  with  gladness  ?  (Exit.) 


52  The  Tragedy  of 


Eyiter  Chorus. 
Lo,  lo,  there  is  he, 
Who  brings  with  him  a  greater  Anne  than  she 
Whose  strong  and  potent  virtues  have  def  ac'd 
Stern  Mars,  his  statues,  and  upon  them  plac'd 
His,  and  the  world's  best  blessings :  this  hath  brought 
Sweet  Peace  to  sit  in  that  bright  state  she  ought, 
Unbloody  or  untroubled ;  hath  f orc'd  hence 
All  tumults,  fears,  and  other  dark  portents, 
That  might  invade  weak  minds ;  hath  made  men  see 
Once  more  the  face  of  welcome  Liberty, 
And  doth — in  all  his  present  acts — restore 
The  first  pure  world,  made  of  the  better  ore. 
Men  shall  put  off  their  iron  minds,  and  hearts, 
The  Time  forget  his  old  malicious  arts 
With  this  new  minute ;  and  no  print  remain 
Of  what  was  thought  the  former  ages'  stain. 
What  all  the  minutes,  hours,  weeks,  months  and  years, 
That  hang  in  file  upon  these  silver  hairs, 
Could  not  produce  beneath  the  Briton  stroke. 
The  Roman,  Saxon,  Dane,  and  jSTorman  yoke. 
This  point  of  Time  hath  done.     ]S[ow,  London,  rear 
Thy  forehead  high,  and  on  it  strive  to  wear 
Thy  choicest  gems ;  teach  thy  steep  towers  to  rise 
Higher  with  people ;  set  with  sparkling  eyes 
Thy  spacious  windows ;  and  in  every  street 
Let  thronging  joy,  love,  and  amazement  meet. 
Cleave  all  the  air  with  shouts,  and  let  the  cry 
Strike  through  as  long,  and  universally, 
As  thunder ;  for  thou  now  art  blest  to  see 
That  sight  for  which  thou  didst  begin  to  be. 
And  here  she  comes  that  is  no  less  a  part 
In  this  day's  greatness,  than  in  my  glad  heart : 
Glory  of  queens,  and  glory  of  your  name. 


Anne  Boleyn.  53 


Whose  graces  do  as  far  outspeak  jour  fame 
As  fame  doth,  silence. 

(A  procession  of  boats  seen  on  the  river.) 


Scena  Prima. 


Enter  two  Gentlemen  meeting  one  another. 


1.  Gent.  You're  well  met  once  again. 

2.  Gent.  So  are  jou. 

1.  Gent.  You  come  to  take  your  stand  here  and  behold 
The  Ladj  Anne  pass  from  her  coronation  ? 

2.  Gent.   'Tis  all  my  business.    Being  at  Greenwich — 
From  whence  set  forth  in  pomp  and  royalty, 

Guarded  with  Graces  and  with  gracious  trains. 
She  came  adorned  hither  like  sweet  May — 
I  eyed  them  to  their  boats.     A  royal  train. 
Believe  me. 

1.  Gent.  I  know't  too  well. 

2.  Gent.   The  citizens, 

I  am  sure,  have  shown  at  full  their  royal  minds, — 
As  let  'em  have  their  rights,  they  are  ever  forward^ — 
In  celebration  of  this  day  with  shews, 
Pageants,  and  sights  of  honor. 

1.  Gent.  ISTever  greater, 

l^or  I'll  assure  you  better  taken,  sir. 

2.  Gent.  I  have  not  wink'd  once  since  I  saw  these 

sights. 
The  press  of  boats,  or  pride — be  it  either  which — 
Made  Thamesis  to  mount  above  the  banks : 
The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 


54  The  Tragedy  of 


Burnt  on  the  water :  silver  shew'd  the  oars 

Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 

The  water,  which  thej  beat,  to  follow  faster, 

As  amorous  of  their  strokes.     For  her  own  person, 

It  beggar'd  all  description :  she  did  lie 

In  her  pavilion — cloth  of  gold,  of  tissue — 

(Her  white  attire  semin'd  with  gold ;  her  hair 

Long,  loose  and  large,  flowing  down)  as  he  had  set  her 

In  a  shower  of  gold  and  hail'd  rich  pearls  upon  her. 

Sir,  as  I  have  a  soul,  she  is  an  angel. 

Her  gentlewomen,  like  so  many  nymphs, 

Attended  her  i'  th'  eyes.     From  the  barge 

A  strange  invisible  perfume  hit  the  sense 

Of  the  adjacent  wharves.     The  City  cast 

Her  people  out  upon  her. 

1.  Gent.  Royal  wench  ! 

Her  bed  is  India,  there  she  lies  a  pearl. 

2.  Gent.  Our  king's  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel, 
As  twenty  seas  if  all  their  sands  were  pearl, 

The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 
I  cannot  blame  his  conscience :  for  a  thought 
Of  added  grace  would  be  to  paint  the  lily. 
Or  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet. 

1.  Gent.  But  I  beseech  you,  what's  become  of 

Katherine, 
The  princess  dowager  ?     How  goes  her  business  ? 

2.  Gent.  That  I  can  tell  you  too.     She  was  divorc'd, 
And  the  late  marriage  made  of  none  effect. 

Since  which,  she  was  remov'd  to  Kymbolton 
Where  she  remains  now  sick. 

1.  Gent.  But  is't  not  cruel 

That  she  should  feel  the  smart  of  this  ? 

2.  Gent.  Alas ! 

1.  Gent.  The  trumpets  sound :  stand  close,  the  queen 
is  coming.  {Hautboys.) 


Anne  Boleyn,  55 


The  Order  of  Coronation. 

1.  A  lively  flourish  of  trumpets; 

2.  Then  two  Judges. 

S.  Lord  Chancellor  with  purse  and  mace  before  him. 

4.  Choristers  singing.     Music. 

5.  Mayor  of  London  hearing  the  mace.  Then  Garter 
in  his  coat  of  arms,  and  on  his  head  he  wore  a  gilt  copper 
crown. 

6.  Marquis  Dorset,  hearing  a  scepter  of  gold,  on  his 
head  a  demi-coronal  of  gold.  With  him,  the  Earl  of  Sur- 
rey hearing  the  rod  of  silver,  with  the  dove;  crowned  with 
an  earl's  coronet.     Collars  of  SS. 

7.  Duke  of  Suffolk  in  his  rohe  of  estate,  his  coronet  on 
his  head,  hearing  a  long  ivhite  wand,  as  high  steward. 
With  him,  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  ivith  the  rod  of  marshal- 
ship,  a  coronet  on  his  head.     Collars  of  SS. 

8.  A  canopy,  home  hy  four  of  the  Cinque-Ports; 
under  it  the  Queen  in  her  rohe;  her  hair  richly  adorned  with 
pearl,  crowned.  On  each  side  her,  the  Bishops  of  London 
and  Winchester. 

9.  The  old  Duchess  of  Norfolk  in  a  coronal  of  gold 
wrought  with  flowers,  hearing  the  Queen  s  train. 

10.  Certain  Ladies  and  Countesses,  with  plain  circlets 
of  gold  without  flowers. 

Exeunt.  First  passing  over  the  stage  in  order  and 
state,  and  then  a  great  flourish  of  trumpets. 

2.  Gent.  Who's  that  that  bears  the  scepter  ? 

1.  Gent.  Marquis  Dorset: 

And  that  the  Earl  of  Surrey  with  the  rod. 

2.  Gent.  A  bold,  brave  gentleman.     That  should  be 
The  Duke  of  Suffolk. 

1.  Gent.  'Tis  the  same :  high  steward. 

2.  Gent.  And  that  my  lord  of  Norfolk  ? 


56  The  Tragedy  of 


1.  Gent.  Yes. 

2.  Gent.  Rojal  Queen, 

Possest  witli  such  a  gentle  sovereign  grace, 

Of  such  enchanting  presence  !     Heaven  bless  thee  ! 

Thou  hast  the  sweetest  face  I  ever  look'd  on. 

1.  Gent.   She  is  a  theme  of  honor  and  renown : 
A  peerless  queen,  a  royal  princely  dame. 

2.  Gent.  Ay,  the  most  peerless  piece  of  earth,  I 

think. 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  bright  on. 

1.  Gent.  They  that  bear 

The  cloth  of  honor  o'er  her,  are  four  barons 
Of  the  Cinque-Ports. 

2.  Gent.  Those  men  are  happy ;  and  so  are  all  are  near 

her. 

I  take  it,  she  that  carries  up  the  train, 

Is  that  old  noble  lady.  Duchess  of  Xorfolk. 

1.  Gent.  It  is ;  and  all  the  rest  are  countesses. 

2.  Gent.   Their  coronets  say  so.      They  are  stars 

indeed. 
And  sometimes  falling  ones. 

1.  Gent.  JSTo  more  of  that. 

Enter  a  third  Gentleman. 

2.  Gent.  God  save  you,  sir.     Where  have  you  been 

broiling  ? 

3.  Gent.  Among  the  crowd  i'  th'  Abbey  where  a  finger 
Could  not  be  wedg'd  in  more :  I  am  stifled 

With  the  mere  rankness  of  this  general  joy. 

2.  Gent.  You  saw  the  ceremony  ? 

3.  Ge7it.  That  I  did. 

1.  Gent.  How  was  it  ? 

3.  Gent.  Well  worth  seeing. 

2.  Gent.  Good  sir,  speak  it  to  us. 

3.  Gent.  As  well  as  I  am  able.     The  rich  stream 
Of  lords  and  ladies,  having  brought  the  queen 


Anne  Boleyn.  57 


To  a  prepar'd  place  in  the  choir,  fell  off 
A  distance  from  her ;  while  her  grace  sat  down 
In  a  rich  chair  of  state,  opposing  freely 
The  beauty  of  her  person  to  the  people, 
Who  thirst  to  drink  the  nectar  of  her  sight. 

2.  Gent.  That  beauteous  Cypria's  peer ! 

3.  Gent.  Her  angel  face. 

As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shined  bright 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place — 
Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  grace ; 
Her  ivory  forehead ;  fair  eyes  wondrous  bright, 
Clear  as  the  sky  without  or  blame  or  blot. 
Under  the  shadow  of  her  even,  brows ; 
The  vermeil  red  did  show  in  her  fair  cheeks, 
Like  roses  in  a  bed  of  lilies  shed ; 
Ambrosial  odors  from  them  flew,  and  fed 
The  sense  with  double  pleasure. 

1.  Gent.   She  is  fair. 

3.  Gent.   So  fair,  and  thousand,  thousand  times  more 
fair 
She  seem'd  when  she  presented  was  to  sight ; 
Such  noise  arose  as  the  shrouds  make  at  sea 
In  a  stiff  tempest — to  as  many  tunes : 
Hats,  cloaks — doublets  I  think — flew  up.     Such  joy 
I  never  saw  before. 

2.  Gent.  But  what  follow'd  ? 

3.  Gent.  At  length  her  grace  rose,  and  with  modest 

paces 
Came  to  the  altar :  where  she  kneel'd  and  saint-like 
Cast  her  fair  eyes  to  heaven,  and  pray'd  devoutly. 
Then  rose  again  and  bowed  her  to  the  people : 
When  by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
She  had  all  the  royal  makings  of  a  queen — 
As  holy  oil,  Edward  Confessor's  crown. 
The  rod,  and  bird  of  peace,  and  all  such  emblems — 


58  The  Tragedy  of 


Laid  nobly  on  her ;  which  perform' d,  the  choir, 
With  all  the  choicest  music  of  the  kingdom, 
Together  sung  Te  Deum.     So  she  'parted, 
And  with  the  same  full  state  pac'd  back  again 
To  York  Place,  where  the  feast  is  held. 

1.  Gent.  Sir, 

You  must  no  more  call  it  York  Place,  that's  past ; 
Por  since  the  Cardinal  fell  that  title's  lost. 
'Tis  now  the  king's  and  call'd  Whitehall. 

3.  Gent.  I  know  it ; 
But  'tis  so  lately  alter' d,  that  the  old  name 
Is  fresh  about  me. 

2.  Gent.  Yes,  without  all  doubt. 

3.  Gent.  Come  gentlemen,  ye  shall  go  my  way, 
Which  is  to  th'  Court,  there  ye  shall  be  my  guests : 
Something  I  can  command.     As  I  walk  thither, 
I'll  tell  ye  more. 

Both.  You  may  command  us. 

1.  Gent.  What  more  ? 

3.  Gent.  The  king  in  secrecy  hath  Lady  Anne 
Long  married.     As  I  rode  from  Calais — 

2.  Gent.  When  ? 

3.  Gent.  Some  six  months  since — he  told  me  so 

himself : 
Marry,  he  said  he  car'd  not,  he,  who  knew  it. 

1.  Gent.  Alas,  poor  Harry  of  England ! 

3.  Gent.  Two  truths  are  told 
As  happy  prologue  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme :  that  she  which  late 
Was  in  my  nobler  thoughts  most  base,  was  made 
The  Marchioness  of  Pembroke. 

1.  Gent.  Marchioness  ? 
What  great  creation,  and  what  dole  of  honor ! 

3.  Gent.  A  thousand  pounds  a  year — for  pure  respect, 
No  other  obligation — is  her  dower, 


Anne  Boleyn.  59 


Who  so  ennobled  is  as  'twere  born  so. 

1.  Gent.  Honor  and  wealth. 

3.  Gent.  And  virtue.     Who  knows  yet 
But  from  this  lady  may  proceed  a  gem 
To  lighten  all  this  isle  ?  (^Exeunt.) 


Scena  Secunda. 


Enter  the  Queen  under  her  canopy,  who  washeth  and  sitteth  down  at 
the  center  of  tJie  table  under  her  cloth  of  state.  On  the  right  side 
of  her  chair,  stands  the  Countess  of  Oxford;  on  her  left,  the 
Countess  of  Worcester.  At  the  tablets  end  sits  the  Arch- 
bishop OF  Canterbury;  the  Earl  of  Oxford,  hearing  a 
white  staff,  stands  between  the  Archbishop  and  the  Countess 
OF  Oxford.  Bnter  the  sergeant-at-arms.  After  him,  enter  on 
horseback  the  high  steward  and  the  earl  marshal,  followed  by  the 
sewer  and  tJie  Knights  of  the  Bath,  bringing  in  the  first  course, 
with  ships  of  wax  gorgeous  to  behold.  Trumpets  playing  in  the 
vyindow  and  at  the  lower  end  of  the  hall. 

King   and  foreign  Ambassadors  looking  on  through  a 
latticed  window. 


King.  Beshrew  my  soul, 
But  I  do  love  the  favor  and  the  form 
Of  this  most  fair  occasion.  "* 

Both.  We  do  believe  thee. 

King.  And  Anne,  my  wife,  in  seat  of  majesty — 
That  chair  where  kings  and  queens  are  crown'd — hath  sat 
In  the  cathedral  church  of  Westminster, 
The  diadem  upon  her  head.      Sweet  Anne, 
Hast  thou  not  worldly  pleasure  at  command, 
Above  the  reach  and  compass  of  thy  thought  ? 


60  The  Tragedy  of 


And  thou  deserv'st  it.     Fortunate  and  fair, 

One  'pon  wliose  heart  Wisdom  hath  laid  her  crown, 

And  in  whose  hands  Justice  hath  left  her  balance, 

I'll  for  your  highness  pray  continually 

That  God  may  pour  upon  you  all  His  blessings. 

And  that  the  hour-glass  of  your  happy  reign 

May  run  at  full,  and  never  be  at  w^ane. 

1.  Ainbas.  Honor  attends  her  throne;  in  her  bright 

eyes 
Sits  majesty;  virtue  and  steadfastness 
Possess  her  heart ;  sweet  mercy  sways  her  sword. 
King.   Save  her,  I  never  any  woman  found 
That  chastity  did  for  itself  embrace. 
With  due  observance  long  I  wooed  her  thus, 
In  hope  unto  my  pleasure  to  have  won. 
But  was  as  far  at  last  as  when  I  first  begun. 

2.  Ambas.  Goddess,  live  long,  w^hose  honors  we 

advance.  (  Exeunt. ) 

Flourish  of  trumpets,  then  hautboys.     Filter  King  and 

Attendants  on  the  one  side;  the  Queen,  Bishops, 

Lord  Chancellor,  Norfolk,  Suffolk  and 

others,  on  the  other. 

King.  My  peerless  mistress,  sovereign  of  my  peace, 
Long  may  she  joy  with  honor's  great  increase. 

Bish.  As  by  your  high  imperial  Majesty, 
I  had  in  charge  our  fair  queen's  coronation, 
I  have  perform'd  my  task,  and  here  in  presence 
I  humbly  now  upon  my  bended  knee. 
In  sight  of  England,  and  her  lordly  peers, 
Deliver  up  to  your  most  gracious  hand, 
A  glorious  mirror  of  celestial  grace. 
And  majesty  divine. 

King.  O  heavenly  goddess, 
I  can  express  no  kinder  sign  of  love 


Anne  Boleyn.  61 


Than  this  kind  kiss :  O  Lord,  that  lends  me  life, 
Lend  me  a  heart  replete  with  thankfulness, 
For  thou  hast  given  me  in  this  beauteous  face 
A  world  of  earthly  blessings  to  my  soul. 
Lords,  with  one  cheerful  voice,  welcome  my  love. 

All  Tcneel.  Long  live  Queen  Anne,  our  England's 

happiness. 
Queen.   Thanks  to  the  King  of  Kings  for  dignity, 
Thanks  to  my  Lord  and  husband  for  this  honor, 
And  thanks  to  all  that  love  their  king  and  me. 

(Flourish.) 
L.  Chan.  Virtue  shall  witness  of  her  worthiness, 
And  fame  shall  register  her  princely  deeds ; 
The  world  shall  still  pray  for  her  happiness, 
From  whom  our  peace  and  quietness  proceeds. 

(Exeunt  Lords.) 
Manent  King  and  Queen. 

King.  Fall  heavens,  fleet  stars,  shine  Phoebus'  lamp 
no  more ! 
This  is  the  planet  lends  this  world  her  light ; 
Star  of  my  fortune  this,  that  shineth  bright ; 
Queen  of  my  heart,  loadstar  of  my  delight. 
If  any  heavenly  joy  in  woman  be. 
Sweet  of  all  sweets,  sweet  Anne,  it  is  in  thee. 

Queen.  Honor  and  Fortune  wait  upon  the  crown 
Of  princely  Henry,  England's  valiant  king. 

King.  My  life's  light  and  the  comfort  of  my  soul, 
If  winged  Honor  wait  upon  my  throne, 
I'll  make  her  spread  her  plumes  upon  the  head 
Of  thee,  sweet  Anne,     iSTow  England's  lovely  Queen, 
Bethink  thee  of  the  greatness  of  thy  state — 
Great  lady  of  the  greatest  isle,  fair  Queen — 
How  great,  how  famous  and  how  fortunate. 
And  how  to  bear  thyself  with  royalty 
Above  the  other  queens  of  Christendom, 


62  The  Tragedy  of 


That  Britain  thy  magnificence  admire. 
Be  all  thy  thoughts  born  perfect,  and  thy  hopes 
In  their  events  still  crown'd  beyond  their  scopes. 
Let  not  wide  heaven  that  secret  blessing  know 
To  give,  which  she  on  thee  will  not  bestow. 
Blind  Fortune  be  thy  slave,  and  may  her  store— 
The  less  thou  seek'st  it — follow  thee  the  more. 


Queen.  Our  solemn  coronation  service  past, 
My  king,  like  Phoebus,  bridegroom-like  shall  lead 
The  proudest  queen  that  ever  England  knew ; 
My  joys  like  waves  each  other  overcome. 


And  gladness  drowns  where  it  begins  to  flow. 


{^Exeunt.) 


Scena  Tertia. 


Enter  Chorus. 


When  'gins  the  gladsome,  sunny  day  to  shine. 

In  armor  bright  and  sheen,  fair  England's  knights — 

In  honor  of  their  peerless  sovereign, 

High  mistress  of  their  service,  thoughts  and  lives — 

Make  to  the  tilt  amain ;  and  trumpets  sound. 

And  princely  coursers  neigh  and  champ  the  bit : 

When  all — addrest  for  deeds  of  high  devoir — 

Press  to  the  sacred  presence  of  their  prince. 

The  field  is  all  about  enclos'd  with  lists 

The  press  of  people  far  away  to  bar ; 

And  at  the  one  side,  judges  are  dispos'd 

To  view  and  deem  this  day  the  deeds  of  arms ; 


Aline  Boleyn.  63 


And  on  tlie  otlier  side,  Henrj,  the  king, 

Among  them  all  a  worthy  man  of  mark, 

Is  set  to  see  the  fortune  of  the  fray, 

With  warlike  bands  of  earls,  and  lords,  and  knights, 

That  wear  the  garter  sacred  to  Saint  George. 

At  last  forth  comes  the  far  reno\vned  queen, 

With  royal  pomp  and  princely  majesty. 

Unto  the  paled  green  fair  Anne  is  brought, 

And  plac'd  beneath  the  stately  canopy 

Upon  a  stage,  to  see  and  to  be  seen. 

The  whiles  shrill  trumpets  and  loud  clarions  play. 

Lo,  in  this  triumph  that  true  subjects  make, 

Envied  of  none  but  enemies  of  the  truth. 

Her  enemies,  that  serves  the  living  Lord 

And  puts  in  him  her  confidence  and  trust. 

Behold  I  come  in  place,  now  to  describe — 

That  all  may  see  how  well  she  is  belov'd — 

What  troop  of  loyal  English  knights  in  arms, 

Right  richly  mounted  and  appointed  all, 

Hold  jousts  in  honor  of  her  holiday. 

Among  this  stirring  company  of  knights  . 

That  at  the  tilt  in  fair  habiliments 

'Gin  show  themselves,  two  gentlemen  of  name- 


Lord  William  Howard  and  Sir  I^icholas  Carew — 
Come  mounted  and  appointed  gallantly 
Eesolv'd  to  run,  in  honor  of  the  day, 
Contending  rivals  of  each  other's  praise. 
First,  Howard,  ramping  lion-like,  comes  on, 
Gracious  in  his  beginnings  at  the  tilt. 
Pleasing  to  her  to  whom  he  doth  present 
His  person  and  the  service  of  this  day — 
And  all  the  days  and  minutes  of  his  life : 
Bravely  he  bears  him  in  his  mistress'  eye 
And  breaks  his  staves  and  lets  the  shivers  fly. 
Along  the  tilt  Carew  and  Howard  go 


64  The  Tragedy  of 


Swift  as  the  swallow,  or  tliat  Greekisli  nymph 

That  seem'd  to  overfly  the  ears  of  corn : 

And  break  they  do ;  they  miss  not,  as  I  ween, 

And  all  is  done  in  honor  of  their  queen. 

Long  may  they  run  in  honor  of  the  day, 

Long  may  she  live  to  do  them  honor's  right. 

To  grace  their  sports  and  them  as  she  hath  done, 

England's  Astrsea,  Albion's  shining  sun ! 

And  may  she  shine  in  beauty  fresh  and  sheen 

Hundreds  of  years,  our  thrice  renowned  queen. 

Write  Clio,  write ;  write  and  record  her  story. 

Dear  in  Heaven's  eye,  her  court  and  country's  glory. 

(Exit) 

Enter  the  King,  Queen,  Lords  and  Ladies  of  the  Court  to 
ivitness  the  tournament. 

Queen.  In  the  reproof  of  chance 
Lies  the  true  proof  of  men. 

Lady.  The  trumpets  sound. 

Queen.  And  yonder  comes  the  troop. 

Knight.  Hail,  all  you  state  of  England !  Avhat  shall  be 
To  him  that  victory  commands  ?  or  do  you  purpose 
A  victor  shall  be  known  ?     Will  you  the  knights 
Shall  to  the  edge  of  all  extremity 
Pursue  each  other,  or  shall  be  divided 
By  any  voice  or  order  of  the  field  ? 
Howard  bade  ask. 

King.  Which  way  would  Howard  have  it  ? 

Knight.  He  cares  not,  he'll  obey  conditions. 

Queen.  'Tis  done  like  Howard,  but  securely  done; 
A  little  proudly,  and  great  deal  disprising 
The  knight  oppos'd. 

Lord.   O  fair  Queen,  weigh  him  well, 
And  that  which  looks  like  pride,  is  courtesy. 

Queen.   Go  gentle  knight ;  as  you  and  Viscount 
Rochford 


Anne  Boleyn.  65 


Consent  upon  the  order  of  their  fight, 
So  be  it — either  to  the  uttermost 
Or  else  a  breach. 

King.  They  are  oppos'd  already.  {Alarum.) 

Lord.   They  are  in  action. 

Lady.  A  mighty  man, 
Valiant  in  arms,  gentle  and  debonair, 
Is  Carew. 

Queen.  Ay. 

King.  Bravely  ran  Howard,  ha ! 

Lady.  A  gallant  lord,  richly  array'd  is  he. 
He  and  his  train. 

King.  Carew  is  well  acquainted  with  the  place, 
And  to  the  tilt  proudly  he  made  approach. 

Lord.  His  steed's  well  taught. 

King.  Himself  fitted  in  all. 

Lady.  His  courser's  neighs  and  plays  are  princely  too. 

King.  Redoubted  knights  they. 

Queen.  Gallant  cavaliers. 
And  such  they  show'd  as  were  King  Arthur's  knights 
He  whilom  us'd  to  feast  at  Camelot. 

King.   Or  like  in  my  conceit,  King  Priam's  sons 
Had  left  Elysium  and  the  field  of  Mars 
To  celebrate  thy  holiday. 

Queen.  'Tis  hard 
To  say  which  did  the  best,  so  valiantly 
They  jousted. 

King.  Mighty  strokes  on  either  side 
Were  sent,  that  seemed  death  in  them  to  bear. 
But  they  were  both  so  watchful  and  well-ey'd 
They  were  avoided.  (Exeunt.) 


66  Tlie  Tragedy  of 


Scena  Quarta. 


Enter  Imperial  Ambassador  and  a  Lord  of  the  Court. 


Im.  Amb.  These  things  are  but  toys  to  come  amongst 
such  serious  observations ;  but  yet,  since  princes  will  have 
such  things,  it  is  better  they  should  be  grac'd  with  elegancy, 
than  daubed  with  cost. 

Lord.  Dancing  to  song  is  a  thing  of  great  state  and 
pleasure. 

Im.  Anib.  I  understand  it  that  the  song  be  in  choir, 

placed  aloft,  and  accompanied  with  some  broken  music. 

Lord.  Ay,  as  he  said,  in  some  high  place  above  you  all. 

Im.  Amb.  I  am  a  mere  spectator.     Acting  in  song, 

especially  in  dialogue,  hath  an  extreme  good  grace;  I  say 

acting, — not  dancing,  for  that  is  a  mean  and  vulgar  thing. 

Loi^d.  It  is  true,  the  alterations  of  scenes,  so  it  be 
quietly  and  without  noise,  are  things  of  great  beauty  and 
pleasure :  for  they  feed  and  relieve  the  eye  before  it  be  full 
of  the  same  object.  Turning  dances  into  a  figure  is  a  child- 
ish curiosity,  yet  did  but  Venus  tread  a  dainty  step,  lords 
of  the  South  and  princes  of  esteem  would  follow,  even  at 
the  heels,  in  golden  multitudes.  She  is  the  grace  of  all  that 
are. 

(Fays  dance.     A  fidl  song  follows  by  all  the  voices.) 

Song. 
The  solemn  rites  are  ivell  begun; 
And,  though  but  lighted  by  the  moon, 
They  show  as  rich  as  if  the  sun 
Had  made  this  night  his  noon. 
But  may  none  wonder  that  they  are  so  bright. 
The  moon  now  borrows  from  a  greater  light 


Anne  Boleyn.  67 


Than  princely  Oberon. 
Go  on, 

This  is  not  evei^y  night. 

Nay,  nay. 

You  must  not  stay. 

Nor  he  iveary  yet; 

This's  no  time  to  cast  aivay, 

Or  for  fays  so  to  forget 

The  virtue  of  their  feet. 

(They  dance  again.) 

Enter  King,  Queen,  and  Court  masked  for  the  dance. 

Kirig.   See,  your  guests  approach. 
Address  yourself  to  entertain  them  sprightly, 
And  let's  be  red  with  mirth. 

Queen.  You  are  welcome,  sirs. 
Give  me  those  flowers  there,  Dorcas.     Reverend  sirs, 
For  you  there's  rosemary  and  rue,  these  keep 
Seeming,  and  savor  all  the  winter  long : 
Grace,  and  remembrance  be  to  both,  and  welcome. 

1.  Lord.   O  fair  one,  well  you  fit  our  ages  thus 
With  flowers  of  winter. 

Queen.   The  fairest  flowers  o'  the  season 
Are  our  carnations  and  streak'd  gillyflowers — 
Which  some  call  nature's  bastards — of  that  kind 
I  care  not  to  get  slips,  for  I  have  heard  ' 
There  is  an  art,  which  in  their  piedness  shares 
With  great  creating  nature. 

2.  Lord.   Say  there  be : 

Yet  nature  is  made  better  by  no  mean 

But  nature  makes  that  mean :  so  over  that  art — 

Which  you  say  adds  to  nature — is  an  art 

That  nature  makes :  you  see,  sweet  maid,  we  marry 

A  gentler  scion  to  the  wildest  stock, 

And  make  conceive  a  bark  of  baser  kind 

By  bud  of  nobler  race.     This  is  an  art  ^ 


68  The  Tragedy  of 


Which  does  'mend  nature :  change  it  rather,  but 
The  art  itself  is  nature. 

Queen.  So  it  is. 
Ah,  welcome  gentlemen.    Here's  flowers  for  you : 
Hot  lavender,  mints,  savory,  marjoram, 
The  marigold  that  goes  to  bed  with  the  sun, 
And  with  him  rises  weeping :  these  are  flowers 
Of  middle  summer,  and  I  think  they're  given 
To  men  of  middle  age.     You're  very  welcome. 

3.  Lord.  'Twere  better  give  a  thing  a  sign  of  love, 
Unto  a  mighty  person  or  a  king. 

Queen.  Yea,  doubtless,  thou  say'st  truly.     Fairest 
friend, 
I  would  I  had  some  flowers  o'  th'  spring  that  might 
Become  your  time  of  day ;  and  yours,  and  yours, 
That  wear  upon  your  virgin  branches  yet 
Your  maiden-heads  growing :  O  Proserpina, 
For  the  flowers  now,  that  frighted  thou  let'st  fall 
From  Dis's  wagon :  daffodils  that  come 
Before  the  swallow  dares  and  take  the  winds 

Of  March  with  beauty :  or  pale  primroses 

That  die  unmarried,  ere  they  can  behold 
Bright  Phoebus  in  his  streng-th — a  malady 

Most  incident  to  maids  ;  bold  oxlips,  and 

The  crown  imperial ;  lilies  of  all  kinds — 

The  flower-de-luce  being  one.     O,  these  I  lack 

To  make  you  garlands  of.     Come,  take  your  flowers : 

Methinks  I  play  as  I  have  seen  them  do 

At  Whitsun-Pastorals :  sure  this  robe  of  mine 

Does  change  my  disposition. 
King.  What  you  do 

Still  betters  what  is  done.     When  you  speak,  sweet, 

I'd  have  you  do  it  ever :  when  you  sing, 

I'd  have  you  buy  and  sell  so ;  so  give  alms ; 

Pray  so ;  and  for  the  ordering  of  your  affairs. 


Anne  Boleyn.  69 


To  sing  them  too.     When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 

A  wave  o'  th'  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 

JSTothing  but  that ;  move  still,  still  so, 

And  own  no  other  function.     Each  your  doing — 

So  singular  in  each  particular — 

Crowns  what  you  are  doing  in  the  present  deeds, 

That  all  your  acts  are  queen's. 

Quee7i.  O,  Doricles, 
Your  praises  are  too  large. 

King.  But  come,  our  dance ; 
I  pray  your  hand,  my  Queen :  so  turtles  pair 
That  never  mean  to  part. 

Queen.  I'll  swear  for  'em. 

King.  With  measure  heap'd  in  joy  to  the  measures 
fall,  (/i  dance.) 

1.  Lord.   He  tells  her  something  makes  her  blood 

look  on't. 
3.  Lord.   She  dances  featlv, 

2.  Lord.   So  she  does  anything. 

Enter  Colin  ivith  five  or  six  other  Maskers.     Torclihearers. 

Colin.  What,  shall  this  speech  be  spoke  for  our 
excuse  ? 

Or  shall  we  on  without  apology  ? 

1.  Mash.  The  date  is  out  of  such  prolixity. 
We'll  have  no  Cupid,  hoodwinkt  with  a  scarf. 
Bearing  a  Tartar's  painted  bow  of  lath. 
Scaring  the  ladies  like  a  crow-keeper. 

But  let  them  measure  us  by  what  they  will, 
We'll  measure  them  a  measure,  and  be  gone. 

Colin.  Give  me  a  torch,  I  am  not  for  this  ambling ; 
Being  but  heavy  I  will  bear  the  light. 

2.  Mash.  'Naj,  gentle  Colin,  we  must  have  you  dance. 
Colin.  ]^ot  I,  believe  me ;  you  have  dancing  shoes 

With  nimble  soles  ;  'tis  well,  so  to  your  pleasures, 
I  am  for  other  than  for  dancing  measures. 


70  The  Tragedy  of 


3.  Mask.  Stay,  Colin,  staj. 
Colin.  To  see  no  pastime,  I : 
What  jou  would  have,  I'll  staj  to  know. 
All.  Proceed. 

{Colin  advances  and  sings  his  passion  of  love.) 

0  gentle  Love,  ungentle  for  thy  deed. 

Thou  mah'st  my  heart 

A  bloody  mark. 
With  piercing  shot  to  bleed! 
Shoot  soft,  sweet  Love,  for  fear  thou  shoot  amiss. 

For  fear  too  keen 

Thy  arrows  been. 
And  hit  the  heart  where  my  beloved  is. 
Too  fair  that  fortune  were,  nor  never  I 

Shall  be  so  blest. 

Among  the  rest. 
That  Love  shall  seize  on  her  by  sympathy. 
Then  since  ivith  Love  my  prayers  bear  no  boot. 

This  doth  remain 

To  ease  my  pain, 
I  take  the  wound  and  die  at  Venus'  foot. 

3,  Lord.  And  whither  wends  yon  thriveless  swain  ? 
Seeks  he  dictamnutn,  like  to  stricken  deer, 
For's  wound  ? 

1.  Lord.  He  wends  to  greet  the  Queen  of  Love, 
Whose  sweetness  doth  both  gods  and  creatures  move. 

Enter  Shepherdess. 

Shep.   Colin,  my  heart's  contentment  and  my  choice, 
Use  thou  thy  pipe  and  I  will  use  my  voice. 

Colin.  W^ell  gentle  nymph,  although  you  do  me 
wrong 
That  can  ne  tune  my  pipe  unto  a  song, 
Me  list  this  once,  shepherdess,  for  thy  sake 
This  idle  task  on  me  to  undertake. 


A7ine  Boleyn.  71 


Begin  some  toy  that  I  can  play  upon 
This  pipe  of  mine. 

Shep.   There  is  a  pretty  sonnet — 
We  call  it  Cupid's  Curse :  the  note  is  fine 
And  quick  withal. 

Colin.  ~^o  better  thing,  begin. 

{They  sing,  and  ivhilst  the  Shepherdess  sings  he  pipes.) 

Shep.  Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair, 
As  fair  as  any  may  be ; 
The  fairest  shepherd  on  our  green, 
A  love  for  any  lady. 
Colin.  Fair  and  fair,  and  twice  so  fair. 
As  fair  as  any  may  be ; 
Thy  love  is  fair  for  thee  alone, 
And  for  no  other  lady. 
Shep.  My  love  is  fair,  my  love  is  gay. 

As  fresh  as  bin  the  flowers  in  May, 
And  of  my  love  my  roundelay. 

My  merry,  merry  roundelay, 
Concludes  with  Cupid's  curse, — 
They  that  do  change  old  love  for  new, 
Pray  gods  they  change  for  worse ! 
Both.  They  that  do  change,  etc. 
Shep.  Fair  and  fair,  etc. 
Colin.  Fair  and  fair,  etc. 
Thy  love  is  fair,  etc. 

Shep.  My  love  can  pipe,  my  love  can  sing, 

My  love  can  many  a  pretty  thing. 

And  of  his  lovely  praises  ring 

My  merry,  merry  roundelays. 
Amen  to  Cupid's  curse, — 
Colin.  They  that  do  change,  etc. 
Both.  Fair  and  fair,  etc. 


72  The  Tragedy  of 


Queen.  It  is  enough :  we  tarry  here  too  long. 

King.  Withdraw  you  from  this  presence  for  a  space 
Till  we  have  throughly  question'd  of  the  case : 
Dian  shall  be  your  guide ;  nor  shall  you  need 
Yourself  t'enquire  how  things  do  here  succeed ; 
We  will,  as  we  resolve,  give  you  to  know 
How  everything  doth  speed. 

Queen.  Thy  will  my  wish.  {Exeunt  Ladies.) 

King.   Our  hap  is  loss,  our  hope  but  sad  despair. 

{Exit.) 
Im.  Amhas.  Alas,  how  should  you  govern  any 
kingdom 
That  know  not  how  to  use  ambassadors  ? 
Nor  how  to  be  contented  with  one  wife  ? 
ISTor  how  to  study  for  the  people's  welfare  ? 
'Sov  how  to  shroud  yourself  from  enemies  ?  {Exit.) 

1.  Lord.  I  fear  me  Colin  shall  but  rue  his  deed. 

2.  Lord.  A  deed  too  far  unworthy  of  this  place. 

3.  Lord.  Yet  if  they  be  unmoved  in  their  shames, 
Be  it  a  stain  and  blemish  to  their  names. 

1.  Lord.  If  ever  he  have  child  abortive  be  it, 
Whose  ugly  and  unnatural  aspect 

May  fright  the  hopeful  mother  at  the  view, 
And  that  be  heir  to  his  unhappiness. 

2.  Lord.  Let  her  be  made  more  miserable  by  his  death. 
1.  Lord.  jSTo,  God  forbid  that  I  should  wish  them 

sever'd 
Whom  God  hath  join'd  together :  and  'twere  pity 

To  sunder  them  that  yoke  so  well  together. 

3.  Lord.   She  better  would  have  fitted  me,  or  Percy. 
1.  Lord.  Alas,  poor  fellow :  is  it  for  a  wife 

That  thou  art  malcontent  ?     I  will  provide  thee. 

3.  Lord.  In  choosing  for  yourself  you  shew'd  your 
judgment. 
Which  being  shallow,  you  shall  give  me  leave 
To  be  the  broker  in  my  own  behalf. 


Anne  Boleyn.  73 


1.  Lord,  I'll  tell  jou  what,  I  think  it  is  our  way 
If  we  will  keep  in  favor  with  the  king, 

To  be  her  men  and  wear  her  livery. 

2.  Lord.  Yes,  I  agree,  and  thank  you  for  your  motion. 
1.  Lord.  My  lords,  forbear  this  talk,  here  comes  the 

king. 

3.  Lord.  I  mind  to  tell  him  j)lainly  what  I  think. 

Enter  King. 
King.  Yea,  good  my  lord,  are  you  offended  too. 
That  you  stand  pensive  as  half  malcontent  ? 

1.  Lord.  jSTot  I,  my  Liege. 

King.  Lords,  how  like  you  our  choice  ? 

2.  Lord.   She's  fair  and  virtuous,  but,  pardon  me — 
King.   Setting  your  scorns  and  your  mislikes  aside, 

Tell  me  some  reason  why  the  Lady  Anne 

Should  not  become  my  wife,  and  England's  queen  ? 

Speak  freely  what  you  think. 

3.  Lord.   She  that  is  queen 

Is  now  dishonored  by  this  new  marriage. 

King.  Ay,  what  of  that  ?     It  was  my  will  I  say. 
And  for  this  once  my  will  shall  stand  for  law.       (Exeunt.) 

Enter  Queen,  Archbishop,  Lords,  and  Ladies. 

Queen.  My  lords,  before  it  pleas'd  his  majesty 
To  raise  my  state  to  title  of  a  queen. 
Do  me  but  right,  and  you  must  all  confess. 
That  I  was  not  ignoble  of  descent, 
And  meaner  than  myself  have  had  like  fortune. 
But  as  this  title  honors  me  and  mine, 
So  your  dislikes,  to  whom  I  would  be  pleasing, 
Doth  cloud  my  joys  with  danger  and  with  sorrow. 

Enter  King. 

King.  My  love,  forbear  to  fawn  upon  their  frowns : 
What  danger,  or  what  sorrow  can  befall  thee 
So  long  as  Henry  is  thy  constant  friend, 


74  The  Tragedy  of 


And  their  true  sovereign  whom  they  must  obey  ? 
!Nay,  whom  they  shall  obey,  and  love  thee  too, 
Unless  they  seek  for  hatred  at  my  hands, 
Which  if  they  do,  yet  will  I  keep  thee  safe. 
And  they  shall  feel  the  vengeance  of  my  wrath. 

Arch.  I  hear,  yet  say  not  much  but  think  the  more. 

{Exeunt. y 


Scena  Quinta. 


Snter  several  Lords  maMng  a  noise  with 
horns  and  hounds. 


1.  Lord.  The  hunt  is  up,  the  morn  is  bright  and  gay,. 
The  fields  are  fragrant,  and  the  woods  are  green. 
Uncouple  here,  and  let  us  make  a  bay 
And  wake  King  Henry  and  his  lovely  bride. 
And  rouse  the  lords  and  ring  a  hunter's  peal. 
That  all  the  court  may  echo  with  the  noise. 
Sons,  let  it  be  your  charge  as  it  is  ours 
To  attend  King  Henry's  person  carefully : 
I  have  been  troubled  in  my  sleep  this  night, 
But  dawning  day  new  comfort  hath  inspir'd. 

{Wind  horns.} 
Many  good  morrows  to  your  Majesty : 
Madam,  to  you  as  many  and  as  good. 
I  promised  your  Grace  a  hunter's  peal. 

King.  And  you  have  rung  it  lustily,  my  lord, 
Somewhat  too  early  for  new  married  ladies. 
My  lords,  a  solemn  hunting  is  in  hand, 


An7ie  Boleyn.  75 


Come  on  then  to  our  sport.     Farewell,  fair  Anne : 
I'  faith,  I  had  no  mind  to  hunt  this  day. 
Yet  gracious  madam,  bear  it  as  you  may. 

(Exit  Queen  and  Ladies.) 
Not  like  a  hound  that  hunts  I  follow  here 
I'  th'  chase,  but  one  that  doth  fill  up  the  cry. 

1.  Lord.   'Tis  policy  and  strategy  must  do 
That  you  affect,  and  so  must  you  resolve 
That  what  you  cannot  as  you  would  achieve, 
You  must  perforce  accomplish  as  you  may : 
The  forest  walks  are  wide  and  spacious. 

And  many  unfrequented  plots  there  are ; 
There  let  us  presently  go  sit  in  council. 
How  covert  matters  may  be  best  disclos'd, 
And  open  perils  surest  answered. 

King.  Let  us  do  so :  for  we  are  at  the  stake. 
And  bay'd  about  with  many  enemies. 

2.  Lord.  The  court  is  like  the  house  of  fame,  my 

Liege, 
The  palace  full  of  tongues,  of  eyes,  o£  ears ; 
The  woods  are  ruthless,  dreadful,  deaf  and  dull : 
There  speak. 

King.  Well  guess'd,  believe  me.     'Twas  my  meaning. 

1.  Lord.  Hold  me  your  loyal  servant. 
King.  Let's  withdraw 

And  meet  the  time  as  it  seeks  us.     We  fear  not 

What  can  from  Italy  annoy  us,  but 

We  grieve  at  chances  here.     I'd  spare  my  wife. 

2.  Lord.  What  wound  did  ever  heal  but  by  degrees  ? 
My  Liege,  we  work  by  wit  and  not  by  witchcraft. 

And  wit  depends  on  dilatory  time. 
King.  Does't  not  go  well  ? 
2.  Lord.  Ay,  very  well,  my  Liege. 
.    King.  V  th'  progress  of  this  business,  I  may  perceive 
These  cardinals  trifle  with  me :  I  abhor 


76  The  Tragedy  of 


This  dilatory  sloth  and  tricks  of  Rome. 

O  learn'd  and  well  beloved  servant,  Cranmer, 

Prove  but  our  marriage  lawful,  by  my  life 

And  kingly  dignity,  I  will  demand 

What  earthly  name  to  interrogatories 

Can  taste  the  free  breath  of  a  sacred  king  ? 

But  as  we,  under  Heaven,  are  supreme  head, 

So  under  Him,  that  great  supremacy 

Where  we  do  reign  we  will  alone  uphold 

Without  th'  assistance  of  a  mortal  hand. 

For  he  that  holds  this  kingdom,  holds  the  law. 

2.  Lord.  You'll  stand  then  curs'd  and  excommunicate, 
And  blessed  shall  he  be  that  doth  revolt 
From  his  allegiance  to  an  heretic ; 
And  meritorious  shall  that  hand  be  call'd, 
Canoniz'd  and  worshipt  as  a  saint, 
That  takes  thy  life  by  any  secret  course. 

King.   Things  past  redress  are  now  with  me  past  care. 
Though  France  and  all  the  kings  of  Christendom, 
Are  led  so  grossly  by  this  meddling  priest. 
Dreading  the  curse  that  money  can  buy  out. 
And  by  the  merit  of  vile  gold,  dross,  dust. 
Purchase  corrupted  pardon  of  a  man, — 
Who  in  that  sale  sells  pardon  from  himself, — 
Though  he,  and  all  the  rest  so  grossly  led. 
This  juggling  witchcraft  with  revenue  cherish, 
Yet  I  alone,  alone  do  me  oppose 
Against  the  Pope,  and  count  his  friends  my  foes. 

2.  Lord.  Yet  excommunication  is  the  judgment 
Greatest  on  earth,  and  ratified  in  heaven. 

King.  I  know  it  well,  and  I  do  not  deny  it. 

{Exeunt.) 


Anne  Boleyn.  77 


Scena  Sexta. 


Mnter  Bishop  of  Winchester  and  Sir  Thomas  Lovel, 


BisJi.  What  news,  Sir  Thomas  Lovel  ? 

Lovel.  'Faith  mj  lord,  I  hear  of  none  but  of  the  Re- 
formation that  fills  the  court  with  talk  and  quarrels,  abusing 
better  men  than  they  can  be;  out  of  a  foreign  wisdom, 
renouncing  clean  the  faith  they  have  in  the  institutions  of 
the  Church  of  Rome  for  new  opinions,  divers  and  danger- 
ous, which  are  heresies,  and  not  reformed  may  prove 
pernicious. 

Bisli.  Which  reformation  must  be  sudden,  too.  'Tis 
time  to  give  them  physic,  their  diseases  are  grown  so  catch- 
ing. If  we  suffer — out  of  our  easiness  and  childish  pity  to 
one  man's  honor — this  contagious  sickness,  farewell  all 
physic.  And  what  follows  then  ?  Commotions,  uproars, 
and  a  general  taint  of  the  whole  state ;  as  of  late  days  our 
neighbors,  the  upper  Germany,  can  dearly  witness. 

Lov.  Ay,  marry:  well  advised  though  there  be  some 
good  purged  with  the  bad. 

Bish.  Whither  were  you  going  ? 

Lov.   To  the  court. 

Bisli.  My  barge  stays.  Your  lordship  shall  along. 
!N"ow  briefly,  the  course  of  the  contention  is  to  be  stopped  at 
the  first,  being  else  as  the  water's,  which  if  it  gain  a  breach, 
will  hardly  be  recovered.  There  will  be  kept  no  unity  in 
believing,  except  it  be  entertained  in  worshipping. 

Lov.  It  is  too  late :  his  highness'  blood  is  touched  cor- 
ruptibly. 

Bish.  O  'tis  true.  This  goddess,  this  Semiramis,  this 
queen,  being  of  the  nature  not  only  to  love  extremities,  but 


78  The  Tragedy  of 


also  to  fall  to  them  without  degrees,  will  see  his  shipwreck 
and  his  commonweal's.  If  he  do  not,  on  peril  of  a  curse,  let 
go  the  hand  of  that  arch-heretic,  'twill  come. 

Lov.  There  is  no  tongue  hath  power  to  curse  him 
right,  but  the  king  will  raise  the  power  of  France  upon  his 
head,  unless  he  do  submit  himself  to  Rome. 

{Exeunt.) 


Scena  Septima. 


Enter  Queen,  Lady,  and  Frith. 


Queen.  Be  thou  assur'd,  good  Frith,  that  I  will  do 
All  my  abilities  in  thy  behalf. 

Lady.  Good  madam,  do. 

Frith.  I  thank  you,  madam. 

Queen.  Before  this  lady  here, 
I  give  thee  warrant  of  thy  place.     Assure  thee 
If  I  do  vow  a  friendship,  I'll  perform  it 
To  the  last  article.     My  lord  shall  never  rest : 
I'll  watch  him  tame,  and  talk  him  out  of  patience, 
His  bed  shall  seem  a  school,  his  board  a  shrift ; 
I'll  intermingle  everything  he  does 
With  this  your  suit :  therefore  be  merry,  sir, 
For  thy  solicitor  shall  rather  die. 
Than  give  thy  cause  away. 

Enter  King. 

Lady.  Madam,  here  comes  my  liege. 
Frith.  Madam,  I'll  take  my  leave. 


Anne  Boleyn.  79 


Queen.  Why,  stay  and  hear  me  speak. 

Frith.  Madam,  not  now :  I  am  very  ill  at  ease, 
Unfit  for  my  own  purposes. 

Queen.  Well,  do  your  discretion.  (Exit  Frith.) 

Honor  and  health  unto  your  Majesty. 
I  am  an  humble  suitor  to  your  virtues, 
For  pity  is  the  virtue  of  the  law. 
And  none  but  tyrants  use  it  cruelly. 
It  pleases  Time  and  Fortune  to  lie  heavy 
Upon  a  friend  of  mine,  a  Lutheran, 
And  fair  deserving. 

King.  Be  it  not  thy  care. 

Queen.  He  is  a  youth,  setting  his  fate  aside, 
Of  comely  virtues. 

King.  Go,  I  charge  thee,  Anne. 

Queen.   There's  honor  in  him  which  buys  out  his 
fault : 
And  with  a  noble  fury,  and  fair  spirit, 
Seeing  his  reputation  touch'd  to  death, 
He  did  oppose  his  foe. 

King.  So  ?  fitly.     Go. 

Queen.  And  with  such  sober  and  unnoted  passion 
He  did  behoove  his  anger  ere  'twas  spent, 
As  if  he  had  but  prov'd  an  argmnent. 

King.  The  law  shall  bruise  'em,  Anne.     You  undergo 
Too  strict  a  paradox :  your  words  have  took 
Such  pains  as  if  they  labor'd  to  set  quarreling 
Upon  the  head  of  valor,  which  indeed 
Is  valor  misbegot,  and  came  into  the  world 
When  sects  and  factions  were  newly  born. 

Queen.  My  Lord — 

King.  'Tis  necessary  he  should  die. 

Lady.  You  breathe  in  vain. 

Queen.  In  vain  ?     His  service  done  at  Calais 
Were  a  sufficient  briber  for  his  life. 


80  The  Tragedy  of 


King.  What's  that  ? 

Queen.  He's  done  fair  service. 

King.  He's  been  known 
To  cherish  factions,  'tis  inferr'd  to  us. 

Queen.  O  my  Lord — 

King.  He  dies. 

Queen.  Hard  fate. 

King.  We  are  for  law ;  he  dies,  urge  it  no  more. 
On  height  of  our  displeasure. 

Queen.  Must  it  be  ? 
I  cannot  think  but  you've  forgot  our  love. 

King.  Ha  ?  ha  ?  what  sayest  thou  ?     Thy  meaning, 
Anne. 

Queen.  It  could  not  else  be  I  should  prove  so  base 
To  sue  and  be  denied  such  common  grace. 
I  say  it  must  not  be  so. 

King.  Do  you  dare  our  anger  ? 
'Tis  in  few  words  but  spacious  in  effect : 
He  shall  be  executed. 

Queen.  I  am  sick  of  grief, 
And  now  I  understand  how  all  things  go.  {Exit.) 

King.  The  violence  of  either  grief  or  joy 
Their  own  enactors  with  themselves  destroy : 
Where  joy  most  revels,  grief  doth  most  lament; 
Grief  joys,  joy  grieves,  on  slender  accident. 
This  world  is  not  for  aye ;  nor  'tis  not  strange. 
That  even  our  loves  should  with  our  fortunes  change ; 
For  'tis  a  question  left  us  yet  to  prove, 
Whether  love  lead  fortune,  or  else  fortune,  love. 

{Exeunt.) 


Anne  Boleyn.  ■  81 


Actus  Quartus.     Scena  Prima. 


Enter  two  Officers. 


1.  Off.  The  king  is  proud  and  loves  not  the  common 
people. 

2.  Off.  'Faith  there  hath  been  many  great  men  that 
have  flattered  the  people,  who  ne'er  loved  them ;  and  there 
be  many  that  they  have  loved,  they  know  not  wherefore :  so 
that  if  they  love  they  know  not  why,  they  hate  upon  no 
better  ground.  Therefore,  for  the  king  neither  to  care 
whether  they  love,  or  hate  him,  manifests  the  true  knowl- 
edge he  has  in  their  disposition,  and  out  of  his  noble  care- 
lessness lets  them  plainly  see  it. 

1.  Off.  If  he  did  not  care  whether  he  had  their  love  or 
no,  he  waved  indifferently,  'twixt  doing  them  neither  good 
nor  harm. 

2.  O'ff.  But  he  hath  so  planted  his  honors  in  their  eyes, 
and  his  actions  in  their  hearts,  that  for  their  tongues  to  be 
silent  and  not  to  confess  so  much  were  a  kind  of  ingrateful 
injury :  to  report  otherwise  were  a  malice,  that  giving  itself 
the  lie,  w^ould  pluck  reproof  and  rebuke  from  every  ear  that 
heard  it.     He  hath  deserved  worthily. 

1.  Off.  So  will  the  queen,  who  having  been  supple  and 
courteous  to  the  people,  is,  in  their  estimation  and  report, 
the  nonpareil  of  this  time;  this  dear  nurse  of  arts  and 
plenties,  this  sister  of  innocency  and  an  upright  mind,  will 
in  the  perfectness  of  time  turn  the  past  evils  to  advantages, 
for  she  is  gracious.  She  hath  a  tear  for  pity,  and  a  hand 
open  as  day  for  charity :  and  she  will  prove  a  hoop  of  gold 
to  bind  the  king,  that  the  united  vessel  of  their  blood — 
mingled  with  venom  of  suggestion,  as,  force  perforce,  the 


82  The  Tragedy  of 


age  will  pour  it  in — shall  never  leak  though  it  do  work  as 
strong  as  aconitum  or  rash  gunpowder. 

2.  Off.  I  shall  observe  her  with  all  care  and  love, 

1.  Off.  Why  art  thou  not  at  Windsor  with  the  king  ? 

2.  Off.  He  is  not  there  to-day,  he  dines  in  London. 

1.  Off.  And  how  accompanied,  canst  thou  tell  that  ? 

2.  Off.  With  Cromwell,  and  other  his  continual  fol- 
lowers. 

1.  Off.  He  hath  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world. 

2.  Off.  And  it  troubles  you,  that  you  have  not  the  like. 

1.  Off.  There  is  a  difference  between  laploUy  and 
pheasants,  to  tumble  in  the  straw  and  to  lie  in  a  down  bed, 
betwixt  wine  and  water,  a  cottage  and  a  palace. 

2.  Off.  His  gold,  guard,  clattering  of  harness,  and 
fortification  against  outward  enemies,  cannot  free  him 
from  inward  fears  and  cares. 

1.  Off.  ^Tis  true.  {Exeunt.) 

Enter  Queen  and  Lady ;  to  them  enter  Frith. 

Lady.  There  is  no  other  way :  'tis  she  must  do't. 
Go  and  importune  her. 

Queen.  How  now,  good  sir  ? 

Frith.  Madam,  my  former  suit. 

Queen.  Alas,  alas, 
Mv  advocation  is  not  now  in  tune : 
My  lord  is  not  my  lord,  nor  should  I  know  him. 
Were  he  in  favor  as  in  humor  alter'd. 
So  help  me  every  spirit  sanctified. 
As  I  have  spoken  for  you  all  my  best. 
And  stood  within  the  blank  of  his  displeasure 
For  my  free  speech.     You  must  awhile  be  patient ; 
What  I  can  do,  I  will — and  more  I  will 
Than  for  myself  I  dare.     Let  that  suffice  you. 

Frith.  Is  my  liege  angry  ? 

Lady.  He  went  hence  but  now 
And  certainly  in  strange  unquietness. 


Anne  Boleyn.  83 


Frith.  Can  he  be  angry  ?     There's  matter  in't  indeed, 
If  he  be  angry. 

Queen.   Something  sure  of  state, 
Either  from  Rome,  or  some  iinhatched  practice 
Made  demonstrable  here  in  Enghmd  to  him. 
Hath  puddled  his  clear  spirit :  and  in  such  cases 
Men's  natures  wrangle  with  inferior  things, 
Though  great  ones  are  their  object. 

Fi'ith.  ^Tis  even  so. 
For  let  our  little  linger  ache,  and  it  endues 
Our  other  healthful  members  to  a  sense 
Of  pain.  ; 

Queen.  ISTay,  we  must  think  men  are  not  gods, 
]^or  of  them  look  for  such  observancy 
As  fits  the  bridal.    But  sir,  I  am  still 
Attorney'd  at  your  service. 

Frith.  O  give  me  pardon 
That  I,  your  vassal,  have  employ'd  and  pain'd 
Your  sovereignty. 

Queen.  Indeed  you're  pardon'd,  sir. 

Frith.  'Tis  as  God  pleaseth  how,  and  when,  and 
whom; 
'Tis  he  that  doth  exalt,  and  bringeth  low. 
That  life  is  better,  life  past  fearing  death. 
Than  that  which  lives  to  fear :  make  it  your  comfort. 

Queen.  Peace  be  with  thee ;  fare  thee  well.      ( Weeps. ) 

Frith.  Fare  thee  welk  (Exit  Frith.) 

Queen.  What  trumpet's  that  ? 

Lady.  The  king. 

Queen.  Beshrew  me  much, 
I  was — unhandsome  warrior  as  I  am — 
ArraigTiing  his  unkindness  with  my  soul : 
But  now  I  find  I  bad  suborn'd  the  witness. 
And  he's  indicted  falsely. 

Lady.  Pray  Heaven  it  be 


84  The  Tragedy  of 


State  matters  as  you  think,  and  no  conception, 
l^ov  no  jealous  toy,  concerning  you. 

Queen.  Alas  the  day,  I  never  gave  him  cause. 
Lady.  But  jealous  souls  will  not  be  answer'd  so. 
They  are  not  ever  jealous  for  the  cause, 
But  jealous  for  they're  jealous.     It  is  a  monster 
Begot  upon  itself,  born  on  itself. 

Queen.  Heaven  keep  the  monster  from  King  Henry's 

mind. 
Lady.  Amen,  your  Majesty. 

Queen.  I  will  go  seek  him.  {Exit.) 

Lady.  Something  from  Rome,  I  warrant.     There  is 
fallen 
Between  my  lovely  lady  and  the  king 
An  unkind  breach.     O  Lord,  what  shall  betide  ? 

{Exit) 
Enter  King  and  Queen. 

King.  "Be  as  thou  art ;  and  as  they  are  so  let 
Others  be  stiU." 

Queen.  "What  is  and  may  be  covet." 
The  j)oor  advanc'd  make  friends  of  enemies. 

King.  When  our  most  learned  doctors  leave  us, 
And  the  congregated  college  have  concluded 
That  laboring  art  can  never  ransom  nature 
From  her  inaidable  estate,  I  say  we  must  not 
So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope. 
To  prostitute  our  realm,  or  to  dissever 
Our  great  self  and  our  credit. 

Queen.  But  my  Liege, 
l^ever  came  reformation  in  a  flood, 
For  miracles  are  ceast,  and  therefore  we 
Must  needs  admit  the  means  how  things  are  perfected. 
'Twas  the  opinion  of  grave  Aristotle, 
Till  young  men  in  religion  have  been  season'd — 
And  in  morality — for  auditors 


Anne  Boleyn.  85 


Of  matters  o'  policy  they  are  not  fit, 
Because  they're  not  with  time  attempered. 
That  rich  men  might  the  poor  men  set  a-work 
And  them  encourage  several  trades  to  learn 
To  th'  common  good,  saith  Theodoret  wisely, 
His  gifts  hath  God  distributed  diversely : 
To  one  wealth,  to  another  skill.     As  arras 
Of  several  parcels  is  compos'd — some  wrought 
Of  silk,  of  gold  and  silver  some,  and  crewel 
Of  divers  colors,  bright  and  gay  or  sad — 
For  th'  exornation  of  the  whole  to  serve. 
As  music's  made  of  divers  keys  and  discords, 
A  total  sum  of  many  numbers  small. 
So  is  a  commonwealth  of  several 
Inequal  trades  and  callings. 

King.  This  is  a  base  and  rotten  policy. 

Queen.  My  Liege,  my  husband,  think  what  now  you 
speak. 

King.  But  what  we  do  determine  oft  we  break : 
Purpose  is  but  the  slave  of  Memory, 
Of  violent  birth  but  poor  validity, 
Which  now  like  fruit  unripe  sticks  on  the  tree. 
But  fall  unshaken  when  they  mellow  be. 
What  to  ourselves  in  passion  we  propose. 
The  passion  ending,  doth  the  purpose  lose. 

Queen.  But  this  is  mere  digression  from  my  purpose ; 
And,  on  the  cause  and  question  now  in  hand. 
You've  gloz'd  but  superficially. 

King.  My  love — 

Queen.  And  it  proceeds  from  policy  not  love. 
I  muse  you  make  so  slight  a  question. 

King.  But  orderly  to  end  where  I  begun. 
Our  wills  and  fates  do  so  contrary  run 
That  our  devices  still  are  overthrown. 
Our  thoughts  are  ours,  our  ends  none  of  our  own. 


86  The  Tragedy  of 


Queen.  Each  opposite  that  blanks  the  face  of  joy 
Meet  what  I  would  have  well,  and  it  destroy, 
If  I  give  o'er  my  suit. 

King.  'Tis  deeply  sworn. 
Sweet,  leave  me  here  awhile : 
My  spirits  grow  dull  and  fain  I  would  beguile 
The  tedious  day  with  sleep. 

Queen.  Sleep  rock  thy  brain,  (Sleeps.) 

And  never  come  mischance  between  us  twain.  (Exit.) 


Scena  Secunda. 


Enter  Cromwell  to  Brother  Laurence. 


Crom.  Brother,  ho ! 

Enter  Brother  Laurence. 

Lau.  This  same  should  be  the  voice  of  Cromwell. 
Welcome  from  Greenwich,  sir.  What  says  the  king  ? 
Or  if  his  mind  be  writ,  give  me  his  letter. 

Crom.  Sir,  let  me  speak  with  you  within  your 
chamber, 
And  you  shall  hear  things  go  to  your  content. 
Here  is  a  letter'll  say  somewhat,  I  warrant. 

Lau.  Come  up  into  my  chamber.  Master  Cromwell. 
From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  heavy  matters ;  ay,  but  look  you  here : 
Elizabeth  Barton,  th'  Holy  Maid  of  Kent, 
Hath  said  that  if  the  king  did  not  again 


Anne  Boleyn.  87 


Take  Katherine,  his  wife,  lie  of  his  crown 
Should  be  depriv'd,  and  die  the  death  of  a  dog. 

Crom.  'Tis  thought  a  dangerous  thing  'ifs'  to  admit, 
And  'ands',  to  qualify  such  words  of  treason. 
For  every  man  thereby  might  blench  his  danger. 

Lau.  And  yet  express  his  malice. 

Crom.  Which  it  seemeth 
The  judges  take  into  consideration. 
I  warrant  you  she's  like  t'  be  apprehended 
And  set  i'  th'  stocks,  i'  th'  common  stocks,  for  a  witch. 

(Exeunt.) 


Scena  Tertia. 


Enter  two  of  the  Queen's  Ladies. 


1.  Lady.  She  is,  something  before  her  time,  delivered. 

2.  Lady.  A  boy  ? 

1.  Lady.  A  daughter,  and  a  goodly  babe. 
Lusty  and  like  to  live :  the  queen  receives 
Much  comfort  in  it. 

2.  Lady.  Ay,  I  dare  be  sworn : 

These  dangerous,  unsafe  lunes  i'  th'  king,  beshrew  them — 

The  terms  of  this  estate  may  not  endure 

Hazard  so  dangerous  as  doth  hourly  grow 

Out  of  his  lunacies.     Pray  you,  Emilia, 

Commend  my  best  obedience  to  the  queen ; 

If  she  dares  trust  me  with  her  little  babe 

I'll  shew  it  to  the  king.     We  do  not  know 

How  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  o'  th'  child. 


88  The  Tragedy  of 


1.  Lady.  The  silence  often  of  pure  innocence 
Persuades  where  speaking  fails. 

2.  Lady.   This  shall  I  undertake,  and  'tis  a  burthen 
Which  I  am  proud  to  bear. 

1.  Lady.  Most  worthy  madam, 
Your  honor  and  your  goodness  is  so  evident, 
That  your  free  undertaking  cannot  miss 
A  thriving  issue ;  there  is  no  lady  living 
So  meet  for  this  great  errand ;  please  your  ladyship 
To  visit  the  next  rdom,  I'll  presently 
Acquaint  the  queen  of  your  most  noble  offer, 
Who  but  to-day  hammer'd  of  this  design.  {Exeunt.) 

Enter  King  and  Sir  Thomas  Lovel. 

King,  l^ow,  Lovel,  from  the  queen  what  is  the  news  ? 

Lov.  I  could  not  personally  deliver  to  her 
What  you  commanded  me,  but  by  her  woman 
I  sent  your  message,  who  return' d  her  thanks 
In  th'  greatest  humbleness. 

King.  Leave  me  alone, 
For  I  must  think  of  that  wdiich  company 
Would  not  be  friendly  to. 

Lov.  I  wish  your  Highness 
A  quiet  night. 

King.  Sir  Thomas,  good  night.  {Exit  Lovel.) 

Enter  old  Lady. 

Gent,    {withhi)   Come  back :  what  mean  you  ? 

Lady.  I'll  not  come  back ;  the  tidings  that  I  bring 
Will  make  my  boldness  manners.     I^ow  good  angels 
Fly  o'er  thy  royal  head,  and  shade  thy  person 
Under  their  blessed  wings. 

King,  j^ow  by  thy  looks 
I  guess  thy  message.     Is  the  queen  deliver'd  ? 
Say,  Ay  ;  and  of  a  hoy. 


Anne  Boleyn.  89 


Lady.  Aj,  ay,  mj  Liege, 
And  of  a  lovely  boy — the  God  of  heaven 
Both  now  and  ever  bless  her — 'tis  a  girl 
Promises  boys  hereafter. 

King.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Lady.  Most  certain. 

King.  Mock  not. 

Lady.  Sir,  I  tell  you  true. 

King.  What !  girl  ?     O  God's  blest  Mother ! 

Lady.  Sir,  your  queen 
Desires  your  visitation,  and  to  be 
Acquainted  with  this  stranger.     'Tis  as  like  you 
As  cherry  is  to  cherry. 

King.  Lovel.  (Enter  Lovel.) 

Lov.  Sir. 

King.  Give  her  an  hundred  marks  and  come  again 
to  me.  (Exit  Lovel.) 

The  crown  will  find  an  heir.     Great  Alexander 

(Spealcing  to  himself.) 
Left  his  to  th'  worthiest :  so  his  successor 
Was  like  to  be  the  best.     There  is  none  worthy. 
What  ?  shall  we  curse  the  planets  of  mishap, 
That  plotted  thus  our  glory's  overthrow  ? 
Or  shall  we  think  the  subtile  witted  men — 
Conjurers  and  sorcerers — contriv'd  this  end  ? 
Embrace  we  then  this  opportunity, 
As  fitting  best  to  quittance  their  deceit. 
A  maid  ? 

Lady.  A  maid. 
How  much  he  wrongs  his  fame  (Speahing  to  herself.) 

To  join  with  witches  and  the  help  of  hell. 
Well,  let  him  practice  and  converse  mth  spirits : 
God  is  our  fortress. 

King.  Go.  (Exit  Lady.) 


90  The  Tragedy  of 


Enter  Lady  beari7ig  the  child. 

Lord,  within.  You  must  not  enter. 

Lady.  IsTay  rather,  good  my  lord,  be  second  to  me : 
Fear  you  his  tyrannous  passion  more,  alas. 
Than  the  queen's  life  ? 

Kiiig.  How  ? 

Lady.  Good  my  Liege,  I  come 
From  your  good  queen. 

King.  Good  queen  ? 

Lady.  I  say  good  queen, 
For  she  is  good.     She's  brought  you  forth  a  daughter — 
Here  'tis — commends  it  to  your  blessing. 

King.  Out! 

Lady.  Look  at  your  babe,  my  Lord,  'tis  yours. 
Behold 
Although  the  print  be  little,  the  whole  matter 
And  copy  of  the  father :  eye,  nose,  lip, 
The  trick  of 's  frown,  his  forehead,  nay,  the  valley 
And  pretty  dimples  of  the  chin  and  cheek,  his  smiles. 
The  very  mould,  and  frame  of  hand,  nail,  finger. 

King.  Almost  as  like  as  eggs.     Women  say  so 
That  will  say  anything. 

Lady.  'Tis  so  like  you. 

King.  What  is  its  name  ? 

Lady.  Elizabeth,  the  gift  of  God. 

King.   The  government  of  a  woman  at  all  times 

{Speaking  to  himself.) 
Hath  been  a  rare  thing,  and  felicity 
In  such  a  government  is  rarer  still. 
Felicity  and  long  continuance 
The  rarest  thing  of  all.     Her  opening  prospects 
Fortune  hath  chequer'd  with  uncertainty — 
But  be  it  as  it  may,  Elizabeth, 
Until  that  act  of  Parliament  be  repeal'd, 


Anne  Boleyn.  91 


Is  destin'd  to  th'  succession.     God  protect  thee. 
With  this  kiss  take  my  blessing. 

{Kisses  the  child.     Exit  Lady.) 

Enter  Lovel. 

I'll  to  th'  queen. 

Those  things  I  bid  you  do,  get  them  dispatcht. 

Good  night,  Sir  Thomas. 

Lov.  Many  good  nights,  my  Lord.  (Exeunt.) 


Scena  Quarta. 


Enter  Cromwell,  and  Agents. 


1.  Man.  Where's  Master  Cromwell  ?     I  have  news  for 
him. 

Crom.   Thrice  welcome  to  us. 

1.  Man.  Wizards  know  their  times. 

Crom.  What  shall  betide  the  king  and  commonweal  ? 

1.  Man.   Th'  holy  maid  hither  with  me  I  bring 
Which  by  a  vision  sent  to  her  from  Heaven, 
Shall  answer  make  to  all  such  questions. 

Crom.  It  is  enough :  I'll  think  upon  the  questions. 

1.  Man.  The  spirit  of  deep  prophecy  she  hath, 
Exceeding  the  nine  sibyls  of  old  Rome : 
What's  past  and  what's  to  come  she  can  descry. 
Speak,  shall  I  call  her  in  ?     Believe  my  words, 
For  they  are  certain  and  infallible. 

Crom.  Go  call  her  in. 


92  The  Tragedy  of 


2.  Man.  Good  Master  Cromwell,  hark  je : 
Question  her  proudly,  let  thy  looks  be  stern, 
By  this  means  shall  we  sound  what  skill  she  hath. 

Enter  Elizabeth  Barton,  the  Holy  Maid  of  Kent. 

Crom.  Fair  maid,  is't  thou  will  do  these  wondrous 
feats  ? 

Maid.   Cromwell,  I  am  by  birth  a  shepherd's  daughter, 
My  wit  untrain'd  in  any  kind  of  art : 
Heaven  and  our  Lady  gracious  hath  it  pleas'd 
To  shine  on  my  contemptible  estate. 
Lo,  whilst  I  waited  on  my  tender  lambs. 
And  to  sun's  parching  heat  display'd  my  cheeks, 
God's  Mother  deigned  to  appear  to  me 
And  in  a  vision  full  of  majesty, 
Will'd  me  to  leave  my  base  vocation. 
And  free  my  country  from  calamity. 
Cromwell,  but  ask  what  you  would  have  ref  orm'd 
That  is  not  well,  and  well  you  shall  perceive 
How  willingly  I  will  both  hear  and  grant. 

Crom.  First  of  the  king :  what  shall  become  of  him  ? 

Maid.  He  must  embrace  the  fate  of  death's  dark  hour : 
Yet  he  shall  lose  liis  cro^vn  ere  that  day  come. 

2.  Man.  I'  faith  she  sung  in  rude,  harsh  sounding 
rhymes, 
That  ere  the  next  Ascension  Day  at  noon, 
His  highness  should  deliver  up  his  crown. 

Crom.  Thou  idle  dreamer,  wherefore  didst  thou  so  ? 

Maid.  Foreknowing  that  the  truth  will  fall  out  so. 
Except  he  call  again  Queen  Katherine. 

2.  Man.  But  oh  vain  boast !  who  can  control  his  fate  ? 

Maid.  Men  at  sometime  are  masters  of  their  fate. 

Crom.  He  shall  spurn  fate,  shun  death,  and  bear  his 
hopes 
'Bove  wisdom,  grace,  and  fear. 


Anne  Boleyn.  93 


Maid.  Security 
Is  mortals'  chief  est  enemy. 

Crom.  O  speak, 
If  thou  art  privy  to  thy  country's  fate 
Which  happily  foreknowing  may  avoid. 

Maid.  I'm  like  a  prophet  suddenly  enrapt — 

2.  Man.   This  foolish,  dreaming,  superstitious  girl 
Makes  all  these  bodements. 

Maid.  O  farewell.  King  Henry ! 

(Speahs  in  a  trance. ) 
Look  how  thou  diest :  look  how  thy  eye  turns  pale : 
Look  how  thy  wounds  do  bleed  at  many  vents : 
Hark  how  thy  England  roars ;  how  Anne  cries  out ; 
How  poor  Elizabeth  shrills  her  dolor  forth ; 
Behold  distraction,  frenzy,  and  amazement 
Like  witless  antics  one  another  meet. 
And  all  cry  Henry,  Henry's  dead :  O  Henry ! 

Crom.  Away,  away : 
Thou  dost  thyself  deceive,  and  others. 
Filling  thy  hearers  with  thy  strange  invention. 

{Exit  Maid,  guarded.) 

All.  'Now  pray,  let's  see  the  writ. 

Crom.  What  have  we  here  ? 
Give  me  the  letter,  I  will  look  on  it. 

(Reads,  then  exclaims.) 
Oh  !  out  upon  the  name  of  Salisbury — 
Ay,  and  of  Derby,  both  these  countesses — 
And  all  the  rest  of  that  consorted  crew  ! 
This  letter  doth  make  good  the  friar's  words. 

All.  Why  this  is  just,  indeed.     Well  to  the  rest  ? 

Crom.  The  Marchioness  of  Exeter  and  Sir  Thomas 
More, 
Bishops  of  Rochester  and  Winchester, 
Together  with  the  Lord  and  Lady  Hussey ; 


94  The  Tragedy  of 


!N^one  else  of  name,  and  of  all  other  men 
But  five  and  twenty. 

All.  'Tis  wonderful. 

Crom.  Didst  thou  not  mark  the  king  what  words  he 
spake  ? 
Have  I  no  friend  will  rid  me  of  this  living  fear? 
Was  it  not  so  ? 

1.  Man.  Those  were  his  very  words. 

Crom.  Have  I  no  friend,  quoth  he ;  he  spake  it  twice, 
And  urg'd  it  twice  together,  did  he  not  ? 

1.  Man.  He  did. 

Crom.  And  speaking  it  he  wistly  look'd  on  me, 
As  who  should  say,  I  woidd  thou  wert  the  man 
That  would  divorce  this  terror  from  my  heart. 
Well,  fare  you  well,  for  this  time  will  I  leave  you ; 
To-morrow  if  you  please  to  speak  with  me, 
I  will  come  home  to  you :  or,  if  you  will, 
Come  home  to  me,  and  I  will  wait  for  you. 

All.  We  will  do  so. 

Crom.   Till  then  think  of  the  world. 

(Exit  Cromwell.) 

1.  Man.  Good  friends,  go  in  and  taste  some  wine  with 
me. 
And  we  like  friends  will  straightway  go  together. 

(Exeunt.) 


Scena  Quinta. 


Enter  King,  solus. 


The  sweetest  sun  that  e'er  I  saw  to  shine ! 
This  lady — this  fair  face  and  heavenly  hue ! 
Jane  Seymour,  lovelier  than  the  love  of  Jove, 


Anne  Boleyn.  95 


Brighter  than  is  the  silver  Rhodope, 

Fairer  than  whitest  snow  on  mountain  tops, 

Thy  person  is  more  worth  unto  King  Henry 

Than  the  possession  of  the  English  crown. 

If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poets  held, 

Had  fed  the  feeling  of  their  masters'  thoughts, 

And  every  sweetness  that  inspir'd  tlieir  hearts, 

Their  minds,  and  Muses  on  admired  themes ; 

If  all  the  heavenly  quintessence  'still'd 

From  their  immortal  flowers  of  poesy, 

Wherein  as  in  a  mirror  we  perceive 

The  highest  reaches  of  a  human  wit ; 

If  these  had  made  one  poem's  period, 

And  all  combin'd  in  beautv's  worthiness, 

Yet  should  there  hover  in  their  restless  heads 

One  thought,  one  grace,  one  wonder,  at  the  least, 

Which  into  words  no  virtue  can  digest. 

Ho  messenger !  {Enter  Messenger. ) 

Sir,  I  have  entertain'd  thee 

Partly  that  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth. 

That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business — 

For  'tis  no  trusting  to  yond  foolish  lout — 

But  chiefly,  for  thy  face  and  thy  behavior. 

Which — if  my  augury  deceive  me  not — 

Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune  and  truth. 

Therefore  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain  thee. 

00  presently  and  take  this  letter  with  thee. 
Deliver  it  unto  Madam  Jane  Seymour, 
And  therewithal  this  purse  of  gold, 

Mes.  My  Lord. 

King.  And  let  me  buy  thy  friendly  help  thus  far. 
Which  I  will  overpay,  and  pay  again. 

{Exit  Messenger.) 

1  stuck  my  choice  upon  her,  ere  my  heart 
Durst  make  too  bold  a  herald  of  my  tongue : 


96  The  Tragedy  of 


Where  the  impression  of  mine  eye  infixing, 

Contempt  his  scornful  perspective  did  lend  me, 

Which  warpt  the  line  of  every  other  favor, 

Scorn'd  a  fair  color  or  exprest  it  stolen, 

Extended  or  contracted  all  proportions 

To  a  most  hideous  object.     Thence  it  came. 

That  she  whom  all  men  prais'd, — and  whom  myself, 

Since  I  have  lost,  have  lov'd, — was  in  mine  eye 

The  dust  that  did  offend  it.     Praising  what's  lost 

Makes  the  remembrance  dear.     Well,  all  is  whole ; 

ISTot  one  word  more  of  the  consumed  time. 

For  w^e  are  old,  and  on  our  quick' st  decrees, 

Th'  inaudible  and  noiseless  foot  of  Time 

Steals  ere  we  can  effect  them.  {Exit. ) 


8cena  Sexta. 


Enter  Gentlemen  and  Servants  of  the  French  AMBASSADOR  in 
conversation  with  Lords  of  the  Court. 


1.  Lord.   That  daughter  there  of  Spain,  sirs,  the 
Infanta, 
Is  near  to  England.     Look  upon  the  years 
Of  the  young  Dauphin  and  that  lovely  maid. 
If  lusty  love  should  go  in  quest  of  beauty. 
Where  should  he  find  it  fairer  than  in  her  ? 
If  zealous  love  should  go  in  search  of  virtue, 
Where  should  he  find  it  purer  than  in  her  ? 
If  love  ambitious  sought  a  match  of  birth. 
Whose  veins  bound  richer  blood  than  the  Infanta's  ? 


Anne  Boleyn.  97 


2.  Lord.   Such  as  she  is  in  beauty,  virtue,  birth, 
Is  the  young  Dauphin  every  way  complete ; 
If  not  complete  of  say  he  is  not  she. 
And  she  again  wants  nothing  to  name  want. 
If  want  it  be  not  that  she  is  not  he : 
He  is  the  half  part  of  a  blessed  man, 
Left  to  be  finished  by  such  as  she ; 
And  she  a  fair  divided  excellence, 
Whose  fulness  of  perfection  lies  in  him. 
O  two  such  silver  currents  when  they  join. 
Do  glorify  the  banks  that  bound  them  in ! 

Fr.  Gent.  The  Dauphin  shall  the  daughter  of  the 
king, 
The  Princess  Mary,  marry. 

2.  Lord.  Yea,  is't  so  ? 
The  Bishop  of  Bayon,  th'  Ambassador, 
Who  had  been  hither  sent  on  the  debating 
And  marriage,  in  the  progress  of  this  business. 
Ere  a  determinate  resolution, 
A  respite  did  require  wherein  he  might 
The  king,  his  lord,  advertise  whether  Mary, 
Katherine's  daughter,  were  legitimate. 

1.  Gent.  My  most  honorable  lord,  think  not  on't. 

2.  Gent.  Let  it  not  cumber  your  better  remembrance. 
1.  Lord.  'Tis  so,  be  sure  of  it. 

3.  Gent.  I  pray  you  upon  what  ? 

1.  Lord.   That's  off,  that's  off,  I  would  you  had  been 

silent. 

2.  Lord.  I'll  tell  you  more  anon. 

(^Scowling  at  the  first  Lord.) 
1.  Lord.  My  caution  was  more  pertinent,  my  lord. 
Than  the  rebuke  you  gave  it. 

3.  Lord.  I  beseech  you  peace, 

Or  if  you'd  ask,  remember  this  before : 
Dangers,  doubts,  wringing  of  the  conscience. 


98  The  Tragedy  of 


Fears,  and  despairs,  and  all  these  for  tHe  marriage, 

That  from  the  understanding  of  himself 

Have  so  much  put  his  majesty,  are  not 

To  be  commanded.      Something  have  you  heard 

Of  the  king's  transformation — so  I  call  it. 

Since  not  th'  exterior,  nor  the  inward  man,  \ 

Resembles  that  it  was — and  now  remains 

That  we  find  out  the  cause  of  this  effect, 

I  hold  my  duty  as  I  hold  my  soul, 

Both  to  my  God,  one  to  my  gracious  king. 

And  I  do  think — or  else  this  brain  of  mine 

Hunts  not  the  trail  of  policy  so  sure 

As  I  have  us'd  to  do — this  business 

Is  ended  well. 

1.  Gent.  More  matter  with  less  art. 

3.  Lord.  I  use  no  art  at  all.     But  let  that  go — 
Hath  there  been  such  a  time,  I'd  fain  know  that, 
That  I  have  positively  said,  'tis  so, 
When  it  prov'd  otherwise  ? 

All.  IS^ot  that  I  know. 

3.  Lord.   Take  this  from  this,  if  this  be  otherwise. 

1.  Gent.  I  think  thou  art  mad. 

3.  Lord.  It  may  be  very  likely.  {Exeunt. ) 

Enter  Jane  Seymour;  to  her  enter  Messenger. 

Mes.   Gentlewoman,  good  day :  I  pray  you  be  my  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  to  Madam  Jane. 

Jane.  What  would  you  with  her,  if  that  I  be  she  ? 

Mes.  If  you  be  she,  I  do  entreat  your  patience 
To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 

Jane.  From  whom  ? 

Mes.  Madam,  his  majesty — my  master. 

Jane.  Oh !  he  sends  ? 

Mes.  Ay ;  please  you  peruse  this  letter. 

{Gives  her  a  note  of  tvarning  from  her 
friends  ivhich  she  quicMy  reads.) 


Anne  Boleyn.  99 


Pardon  me,  madam,  I  have  imadvis'd 
Deliver'd  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not ; 
This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship. 

Jane.  1  pray  thee  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

Mes.  It  may  not  be ;  good  madam,  pardon  me. 

Jane.  There,  hold ! 
I  will  not  look  upon  your  master's  lines : 
I  know  they're  stuft  with  protestations. 
And  full  of  new-found  oaths  which  he  will  break 
As  easily  as  I  do  tear  this  paper. 

Mes.  Madam,  he  sends  your  ladyship  this  purse. 

Jane.   The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  it  me. 

Mes.   Shall  I  return  this  answer  to  the  king  ? 

Jane.  ISTot  so,  sir ;  we'll  withdraw.    Go  to  the  king. 
And  in  the  morning  early  shall  my  uncle 
Bring  him  our  purposes :  and  so  farewell. 

Mes.  I  would  you  would  accept  of  grace  and  love. 

Jane.  And't  may  be  so  we  shall. 

Mes.   Pray  Heaven  you  do. 

{Exit  Jane  Seymour.) 
When  Anne  did  think  my  master  lov'd  her  well, 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you. 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass. 
And  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away, 
The  air  hath  starv'd  the  roses  in  her  cheeks. 
And  pinch'd  the  lily  tincture  of  her  face. 
'Tis  pity  love  should  be  so  contrary.  {Exit.) 


100  The  Tragedy  of 


Scena  Septima. 


Enter  the  Earl,  of  Derby,  Lord  Hussey,  Lord  Dacres, 

and  others. 


lius.  Lords,  in  the  fields  adjacent  I  will  meet  him : 
It  is  our  safety,  and  we  must  embrace 
This  gentle  offer  of  the  perilous  time. 

Der.  Who  brought  that  letter  from  the  Cardinal  ? 

Hus.  A  noble  lord  of  France,  mj  lord  of  Derby, 
"Whose  private  with  me  of  the  Dauphin's  love, 
Js  much  more  general  than  these  lines  import. 

De7\   To-morrow  morning  let  us  meet  him  then. 

Dae.   Or  rather  then  set  forwards  for  'twill  be 
Two  long  hours'  journey,  lords,  or  e'er  we  meet. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Mes.  Once  more  to-day,  well  met,  distemper'd  lords ; 
The  king  by  me  requests  your  presence  straight. 

Der.  The  king  hath  dispossest  himself  of  us, 
We  will  not  line  his  thin  bestained  cloak 
With  our  pure  honors :  nor  attend  the  foot 
That  leaves  the  print  of  blood  where'er  it  walks. 
Return  and  tell  him  so :  we  know  the  worst. 

Mes.  Whate'er  you  think,  good  words,  I  think,  were 
best. 

Der.   Our  griefs  and  not  our  manners  reason  now. 

Mes.  But  there  is  little  reason  in  your  grief, 
Therefore  'twere  reason  vou  had  manners  now. 

1.  Lord.   Sir,  sir,  impatience  hath  its  privilege. 

Mes.   'Tis  true,  to  hurt  his  master,  no  man  else. 

(Derby  draivs.) 


Anne  Boleyn.  101 


Your  sword  is  bright,  sir,  put  it  up  again. 
Stand  back,  mj  lord  of  Derby,  back  I  say : 
By  heaven,  I  think  my  sword's  as  sharp  as  yours. 
I  would  not  have  you,  lord,  forget  yourself, 
ISTor  tempt  the  danger  of  my  true  defence, 
Lest  I,  by  marking  of  your  rage,  forget 
Your  worth,  your  greatness,  and  nobility. 

Der.   Out  dunghill :  dar'st  thou  brave  a  nobleman  ? 
Mes.  Xot  for  my  life :  but  yet  I  dare  defend 
My  innocent  life  against  an  emperor. 

Der.  Ha  !  hence  vile  instrument.     Thou  shalt  not 

damn  my  hand.  (^Sheathing  his  sword.) 

Mes.  Now  will  I  fetch  the  king  to  find  them  here. 
That  he  thereby  may  have  a  likely  guess 

(Sjjeaking  as  he  goes  out.) 
Th'  ambassador  hath  wrote  unto  the  emperor 
How  it  goes  here.  (Exit  Messenger.) 

Der.  My  lords,  he  goes  hence  frowning. 
But  it  honors  us  that  we  have  given  him  cause. 

1.  Lord.  'Tis  all  the  better.     'Tis  not  sleepy  business, 
But  must  be  lookt  to  speedily  and  strongly. 

2.  Lord.   Our  expectation  that  it  would  be  thus 
Hath  made  us  forward. 

Der.  Prithee  now  away. 
There's  more  to  be  consider'd  but  we'll  even 
All  that  good  time  will  give  us.     Th'  event 
Is  yet  to  name  the  winner.     Fare  you  well. 

Hus.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do. 

Der.  But  speedily. 

Hus.  I  will  about  it  straight. 

(Exit  Lord  Hussey.) 

2.  Lord.  My  lord  of  Derby, 
ISTow  send  out  heralds  to  defy  the  king. 
And  make  the  people  swear  to  put  him  down. 


102  The  Tragedy  of 


Der.  I  know  not  what  the  success  will  be,  my  lord, 
But  the  attempt  I  vow.  (Exeu7it.) 

Enter  King,  solus. 

These  stays  and  lets  to  pleasure  plague  my  thoughts. 
Forcing  my  grievous  wounds  again  to  bleed : 
But  care  that  hath  transported  me  so  far. 
Fair  Jane,  is  all  dispers'd  in  thought  of  thee. 
Whose  answer  yields  me  life,  or  breeds  me  death. 
Yond  comes  the  messenger  of  weal  or  woe. 

Enter  Messenger. 
What  news  ? 

Mes.  She's  coy  as  yet  and  doth  repine ; 
She's  holy-wise,  and  too  precise  for  me. 

King.  Are  these  thy  fruits  of  wit,  thy  sight  in  art, 
Thine  eloquence,  thy  policy,  thy  drift 
To  mock  thy  prince  ?  then,  caitiff,  pack  thee  hence. 
And  let  me  die  devoured  of  my  love. 

Mes.  Good  Lord,  how  rage  gainsayeth  reason's 
power. 
My  dear,  my  gracious,  and  beloved  Prince, 
The  essence  of  my  soul,  my  god  on  earth. 
Sit  down  and  rest  yourself ;  appease  your  wrath. 
Lest  with  a  frown  you  wound  me  to  the  death. 
O  that  I  were  enclosed  in  my  grave 
That  either  now,  to  save  my  prince's  life, 
Must  counsel  cruelty  or  lose  my  king ! 

King.  Why  sirrah,  is  there  means  to  move  her  mind  ? 

Mes.  O,  should  I  not  offend  my  royal  liege  ? 

King.  Tell  all,  spare  naught,  so  I  may  gain  my  love. 

Mes.  Alas  my  soul,  why  am  I  torn  in  twain 
For  fear  thou  talk  a  thing  that  should  displease  ? 

King.   Tut,  speak  whatso  thou  wilt,  I  pardon  thee. 

Mes.  How  kind  a  word,  how  courteous  is  his  grace ! 
Who  would  not  die  to  succor  such  a  king  ? 


Antie  Boleyn.  103 


My  Liege,  this  lovely  maid  of  modest  mind 

Could  well  incline  to  love,  but  that  she  fears 

The  power  of  fair  Queen  Anne :  your  Grace  doth  know 

Your  wedlock  is  a  mighty  let  to  love. 

Were  sweet  Jane  sure  to  be  your  wedded  wife, 

That  then  the  twig  would  bend,  you  might  command : 

Ladies  love  presents,  pomp,  and  high  estate. 

King.   She  prizes  not  such  trifles  as  these  are. 
The  gifts  she  looks  from  me  are  packt  and  lockt 
Up  in  my  heart,  which  I  have  given  already 
But  not  deliver'd.     I  have  put  you  out. 
Ah,  let  me  hear  how  to  displace  the  let  ? 

Mes.  Tut,  mighty  Prince — O  that  I  might  be  whist. 

King.  Why  dalliest  thou  ? 

Mes.  I  will  not  move  my  prince : 
I  will  prefer  his  safety  'fore  my  life. 
Hear  me,  O  King,  it  is  the  death  of  Anne 
Must  do  you  good. 

King.  What,  murder  of  my  queen  ! 
Yet  to  enjoy  my  love,  what  is  my  queen  ? 
O,  but  my  vow  and  promise  to  my  queen  ! 
Ay,  but  my  hope  to  gain  a  fairer  queen : 
With  how  contrarious  thoughts  am  I  withdrawn ! 
Why  linger  I  'twixt  hope  and  doubtful  fear  ? 
If  Anne  die  will  Jane  love  ? 

Mes.  She  will  my  Lord. 

King.   Then  let  her  die :  devise,  advise  the  means. 
All  likes  me  well  that  lends  me  hope  in  love. 

{Exeunt.) 
Enter  Imperial  Ambassador  and  Lord  Hussey. 

Hus.  What's  more  to  do. 
As  calling  home  our  exil'd  friends  abroad, 
That  fled  the  snares  of  watchful  tyranny, 
That's  soon  perform'd.     If  Charles,  the  emperor, 
Swear  us  assistance,  and  perform  it  too, 


104  The  Tragedy  of 


The  earls  and  barons  of  the  realm  with  zeal 
To  'mend  the  king,  and  do  our  country  good, 
Shall  follow  with  a  fresh  supply — a  head 
Of  gallant  warriors,  noble  gentlemen. 
Lord  Darcy  promiseth  ten  thousand  men, 

Amhas.  Ay,  here  from  gracious  England  have  I  offer 
Of  goodly  thousands,  but  I  fear  withal 
That  same  mad  fellow  of  the  Korth,  Percy. 

IIus.  T  faith,  I'll  send  him  packing. 

Amhas.  Prithee  do. 

Hus.  Why  my  good  lord,  you  need  not  fear  the  power 
Of  Harry  Percy ;  'tis  too  w^eak  to  wage 
An  instant  trial.     J^ay,  advance  your  standard ; 
The  kingly  bird  that  bears  Jove's  thunderclap, 
The  imperial  eagle,  shall  make  leopards  tame. 

Ambas.  Yea,  but  not  change  his  spots. 

Hus.  Spread,  spread  these  flags 
That  ten  year's  space  have  conquer'd — conquering  eagles — 
They  that  now  thwart  the  right,  in  wars  will  yield. 
The  warlike  soldiers  and  the  gentlemen 
Begin  in  troops  to  threaten  civil  war. 
And  openly  exclaim  against  the  king : 
Therefore  to  stay  all  sudden  mutinies. 
We  will  invest  his  highness  emperor. 
!N^either  spoil  nor  kingdom  seek  we  by  these  arms, 
But  home  at  thraldom's  feet  to  rid  from  tyrants. 

Amhas.  I  must  obey  thee. 

Lord.  Doubtless  these  E^orthern  men, 
Whom  death  the  greatest  of  all  fears  affrights  not, 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head, 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  will  bring  their  powers. 

Amhas.  If  they  get  ground  and  vantage  of  the  king, 
Then  join  you  with  them,  like  a  rib  of  steel. 
To  make  strength  stronger.     But  for  all  our  loves 
First  let  them  try  themselves,  and  what  I  can,  ; 


Anne  Boleyn.  105 


As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,  I  will. 
What  jou  have  spoke — it  may  be  so,  perchance ; 
This  tyrant  whose  foul  name  blisters  our  tongue 
Was  once  thought  honest :  you  have  lov'd  him  well, 
He  hath  not  touch'd  you  yet. 

Lord.  Eor  that  he  has, 
As  much  as  in  him  lies,  from  time  to  time 
Envied  against  the  people,  seeking  means 
To  pluck  away  their  power ;  as  now  at  last 
Given  hostile  strokes — and  that  not  in  the  presence 
Of  dreaded  justice,  but  on  the  ministers 
That  do  distribute  it — in  the  name  o'  the  people 
And  in  the  power  of  us  the  nobles,  we 
Will  not  endure  his  yoke,  but  we  create 
Imperial  Charles  England's  great  emperor. 
And  say,  "Long  live  our  emperor,  Charles." 

Ambas.  I've  pass'd 
My  word  and  promise  to  the  emperor 
I  shall  be  counsel' d. 

Lord.  Good  repose  the  while. 

Amhas.   Thanks,  sir,  the  like  to  you. 

(Exit  Lord.) 
Manet  Ambassador. 

So  from  the  East  unto  the  furthest  West 

Shall  Charles,  the  emperor,  extend  his  arm. 

The  plot  is  laid  by  English  noblemen 

And  captains  of  the  border  garrisons 

To  crown  him  emperor  of  all  the  West. 

This  should  entreat  your  Highness  to  rejoice. 

Since  Fortune  gives  you  opportunity 

To  gain  the  title  of  a  conqueror — 

Renowned  Charles,  greater  than  Charles  the  Great. 

(Exit.) 


106  The  Tragedy  of 


Scena  Octava. 


Enter  King,  soliis. 


Thy  new  vow'd  love,  iii  sight  of  God  and  men, 
Links  thee  nnto  Anne  Bolejn  during  life ; 
For  who  more  fair  and  virtuous  than  thy  wife  ? 
Deceitful  murderer  of  a  quiet  mind, 
Fond  love,  vile  lust,  that  thus  misleads  us  men, 
To  vow  our  faiths  and  fall  to  sin  again  ! 
But  kings  stoop  not  to  every  common  thought : 
Jane  Seymour's  fair  and  wise,  fit  for  a  king ; 
And  I,  a  king,  for  Jane  will  hazard  life, 
Venture  my  kingdom,  country,  and  my  crown : 
Such  fire  hath  love  to  burn  a  kingdom  down. 
Say  Anne  dislikes  that  I  estrange  my  love ; 
Am  I  obedient  to  a  woman's  look  ? 
l^ay,  say  her  father  frown  when  he  shall  hear 
That  I  do  hold  my  fair  Jane's  love  so  dear ; 
Let  father  frown  and  fret,  and  fret  and  die, 
Xor  earth  nor  heaven  shall  part  my  love  and  I. 
Yea,  they  shall  part  us,  but  we  first  must  meet 
And  woo  and  win,  and  yet  the  world  not  see't. 

Enter  Jane  Seymour  and  a  page.     Lord  looking  on  in 

concealment. 

Page.  The  music  is  come,  sir. 

King.  Let  them  play.     Play  sirs. 

(Exit  Page.     Music  plays.} 
Sit  on  my  knee,  Jane :  kiss  me.     Dost  thou  love  me  ? 
Thou  dost  give  me  flattering  busses. 

Jane.  ISTay,  nay,  truly ; 
I  kiss  thee  with  a  most  constant  heart. 


Aime  Boleyn.  10' 


King.  I'm  old,  I'm  old. 

Jane.  I  love  thee  better  than  I  love 
A  young  boy  of  them  all. 

King.  Thou  wilt  forget  me. 

Jane.   Thou  wilt  set  me  weeping  if  thou  say'st  so,  Hal. 

{He  kisses  her.) 

Lord.   Saturn  and  Venus  this  year  in  conjunction ! 
What  says  the  almanac  to  that  ? 

Enter  Queen. 

Queen.  Merciful  Heaven  !  (Swoons.) 

Lord.  Give  sorrow  words ;  the  grief  that  does  not  speaS 
Whispers  the  o'erf raught  heart  and  bids  it  break. 

(Queen  carried  out.     Exeunt.) 

Enter  two  of  the  Queen  s  ivomen.  Queen  seen  lying  in  a  bed. 

1.  Lady.  The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day. 
See,  see  Emilia  if  they  breathe  or  no. 

2.  Lady.  J^o  breath,  nor  sense,  nor  motion,  in  them 

both: 
'Tis  strange  to  think  how  much  the  king  hath  lost 
In  this  which  he  accounts  so  clearly  won : 
For  since  the  birth  of  Cain,  the  first  male  child, 
To  him  that  did  but  yesterday  suspire. 
There  was  not  such  a  gracious  creature  born. 

1.  Lady.  When  he  shall  hear,  even  at  that  news  he 

dies. 

2.  Lady.  Go  with  me  to  the  king. 

1.  Lady.  I^o,  no,  I  will  not. 

I  fear  some  outrage  since  this  chanc'd  to-night. 

2.  Lady.  Death  may  usurp  on  nature  many  hours, 
And  yet  the  fire  of  life  kindle  again 

The  overpressed  spirits.     I  have  heard 
Of  an  Egyptian  had  nine  hours  lain  dead 
By  good  appliance  was  recovered. 


108  The  Tragedy  of 


Ente?'  Servant  with  boxes,  naphins,  and  fire. 

Well  said,  well  said ;  the  fire  and  the  cloths, — 

The  vial  once  more :  I  pray  you  give  her  air. 

(Silence  for  a  space.) 

The  queen  will  live !  nature  awakes !  a  warmth 

Breathes  out  of  her ;  she  hath  not  been  entranc'd 

Above  five  hours.     See,  how  she  'gins  to  blow 

Into  life's  flower  again ! 

1.  Lady.  She  is  alive ; 

Behold,  her  eyelids  'gin  to  part  their  fringes. 

2.  Lady.   O  live,  and  make  us  weep  to  hear  your  fate. 
Queen.  "Where  am  I  ?  where's  my  lord  ?  what  world  is 

this?  (Exeunt.) 

Enter  King  and  Gentlewoman. 

King.  Conduct  me  to  the  queen. 

Lady.  I  may  not,  sir, 
To  the  contrary  I  have  express  commandment. 

King.  Here's  ado — such  ado — to  make  no  stain  a 
stain 
As  passes  coloring.     How  fares  our  lady  ? 

Lady.  As  well  as  one  so  great,  and  so  forlorn, 
May  hold  together :  on  her  frights  and  griefs — 
Which  never  tender  lady  hath  borne  greater — 

King.  Heaven  grant  our  hope's  yet  likely  of  fair  birth. 

Lady.   Still  born,  my  lord. 

King.  Alack,  my  child  is  dead  ! 
And  with  my  child  my  joys  are  buried. 
O  child,  O  child,  my  soul  and  not  my  child ! 
Dead  art  thou  ?     Death's  my  son.  Death  is  my  heir. 
This  is  a  judgment  on  me  that  my  kingdom. 
Well  worthy  the  best  heir  o'  th'  world  should  not 
Be  gladded  in't  by  me.  (Exeunt.) 

Enter  Imperial  Ambassador,  solus. 
My  emperor  hath  wrote  I  must  from  hence 
^0  more  oft  entertain.     I  give  bold  way 


Anne  Boleyn.  109 


To  his  authority,  and  by  mine  honor 

'Tis  most  convenient.     Ha,  I  know  the  riddle, 

For  these  domestic  and  particular  broils 

Are  not  the  question  here.     Let's  then  determine 

On  our  proceeding,  for  these  noblemen, 

Conspirant  'gainst  this  high,  illustrious  prince, 

Come  hither,  now,  to  see  what  I  protest 

Intendment  o'  doing.     Shall  we  wish  for  aught 

The  world  affords  in  greatest  novelty. 

And  rest  attemptless,  faint,  and  destitute  ? 

Methinks  we  should  not.     I  am  strongly  mov'd, 

That  if  James  should  desire  the  English  crown. 

He  could  attain  it  with  a  wondrous  ease 

By  marrying  King  Henry's  daughter,  Mary. 

Enter  Derby  and  another. 
My  Lords, 

I  hope  your  honors  make  no  question 
This  hand  of  mine  hath  writ  in  your  behalf 
To  Charles,  magnificent  and  mighty  prince. 
That  you  in  name  of  other  JSTorthern  lords 
And  commons  of  this  mighty  monarchy,  — 
Intending  his  investion  with  the  crown, 
And  measuring  the  limits  of  his  empery 
By  east  and  west  as  Phoebus  doth  his  course, — 
Did  bid  me  say  their  honors  and  their  lives 
Are  to  his  highness  vow'd  and  consecrate. 
But  he  replied  it  was  a  bare  petition. 

Der.  ITay — 

Arabas.  Pray  be  patient. 

Der.  If  you  refuse  your  aid 
In  this  so  never-needed  help,  yet  do  not 
Upbraid's. 

1.  Lord.  But  how  if  he  do  not,  my  lord  ? 

Der.  Then  may  we  with  some  color  rise  in  arms, 
For,  howsoever  we  have  borne  it  out, 


110  The  Tragedy  of 


'Tis  treason  to  be  up  against  the  king. 

1.  Lord.  A.J,  see  the  ambush  of  our  friends  be  strong 
If  e'er  the  emperor  means  no  good  to  us. 

Ambas.  His  answer  to  me  was :    "A  very  little 
I  have  yielded  to.     Fresh  embassies  and  suits 
ISTor  from  the  state,  nor  private  friends  hereafter 
Will  I  lend  ear  to." 

Der.  Why  so  ? 

Ambas.  He  said  'twas  folly. 

1.  Lord.  Ha  !  do  you  hear,  my  lord  ? 

Der.  But  sure,  if  you 
Would  be  your  country's  pleader,  your  good  tongue. 
More  than  the  instant  army  we  can  make, 
Might  touch  him  to  the  quick. 

1,  Lord.  'No,  I'll  not  meddle. 

Ambas.  Pray  you  go  to  him. 

1.  Lord.  Wliat  should  I  do,  pray  ? 

Ambas.  Only  make  trial  what  you  can  do. 

l.Lord.  Well, 
And  say  that  I  return  unheard,  what  then  ? 

Ambas.  But  as  a  discontented  friend,  grief -shot 
With  his  unkindness. 

Der.   Say't  be  so,  my  lord. 

1.  Lord.  I'll  undertake  it.     Av,  I  think  he'll  hear  me. 


(Exeunt.) 


Actus  Quintus.     Scena  Prima. 


Enter  King  and  NORRIS. 


King.   This  business  will  raise  you  all,  I  take  it, 
If  the  good  truth  were  known. 


An7ie  Boleyn.  Ill 


Nor.  Mj  Lord,  be  cur'd 
Of  this  diseas'd  opinion,  and  betimes, 
For  'tis  most  dangerous. 

King.  Say  it  be  so,  'tis  true. 

Nor.  No,  no,  my  Lord. 

King.  It  is :  you  lie,  you  lie. 

Nor.  Be  certain  what  you  do,  sir,  lest  your  justice 
Prove  violence,  in  the  which  three  great  ones  suffer — 
Yourself,  your  queen,  your  child.     For  her,  my  Lord, 
I  dare  my  life  lay  down,  and  will  do't,  sir, 
Please  you  t'  accept  it,  that  the  queen  is  spotless 
I'  th'  eyes  of  Heaven,  and  to  you- — I  mean 
In  this  which  you  accuse  her. 

King.  Cease,  no  more. 
You  smell  this  business  with  a  sense  as  cold 
As  is  a  dead  man's  nose ;  but  I  do  see't,  and  f eel't 
As  you  feel  doing  thus :  and  see  withal 
The  instruments  that  feel. 

Nor.  If  it  be  so, 
We  need  no  grave  to  bury  honesty. 
There's  not  a  grain  of  it,  the  face  to  sweeten 
Of  the  whole  dungy  earth. 

King.  What  ?  lack  I  credit  ? 

Nor.  I  had  rather  you  did  lack,  than  I,  my  Lord, 
Upon  this  ground :  and  more  it  would  content  me 
To  have  her  honor  true  than  your  suspicion, 
Be  blam'd  for  it  how  you  might.     I  wish,  my  Liege, 
You  had  only  in  your  silent  judgment  tried  it 
Without  more  overture. 

King.  How  could  that  be  ? 

The  circumstances  push  on  this  proceeding. 

(Exit  Norris.) 

Enter  Emilia- 

You  have  seen  nothing  then  ? 

Einil.  jS[or  ever  heard,  nor  ever  did  suspect. 


112  The  Tragedy  of 


King.  Yes,  you  have  seen  jSTorris  and  tli'  queen 
together. 

Emit.  But  then  I  saw  no  harm :  and  then  I  heard 
Each  syllable  that  breath  made  up  between  them. 

King.  What ;  did  they  never  whisper  ? 

Emil.  ]^ever,  my  Lord. 

King.  ISTor  send  you  out  o'  th'  way  ? 

Emil.  Never. 

King.  To  fetch  her  fan,  her  gloves,  her  mask,  nor 
nothing  ? 

Emil.  ]^ever,  my  Lord. 

King.  That's  strange. 

Emil.  I  durst,  my  Lord,  to  wager  she  is  honest, 
Lay  down  my  soul  at  stake.     If  you  think  other, 
Remove  your  thought.     It  doth  abuse  your  bosom. 
If  any  wretch  have  put  it  in  your  head, 
Let  Heaven  requite  it  with  the  serpent's  curse, 
For  if  she  be  not  honest,  chaste,  and  true. 
There's  no  man  happy.     The  purest  of  their  wives 
Is  foul  as  slander. 

King.  Bid  her  come  hither,  go.  (^Exit  Emilia.) 

Manet  King. 

l^ot  any  whom  corrupting  gold  will  tempt  ? 
Uncertain  way  of  gain ;  but  I  am  in 
So  far  in  blood,  that  sin  will  pluck  on  sin : 
Tear-falling  pity  dwells  not  in  this  eye. 

Enter  Queen  and  Emilia. 

Queen.  My  Lord,  what  is  your  will  ? 
King.  Pray  you  come  hither. 
Queen.  How  is't  with  you,  my  Lord  ? 
King.  Well,  my  good  lady.     Oh  hardness  to 

dissemble !  {Speaking  to  himself.) 

How  do  you,  Anne  ? 

Queen.  Well,  gracious  Majesty. 


Anne  Boleyn.  113 


King.  Give  me  your  hand.     This  hand  is  moist, 
my  lady. 

Queen.  It  hath  felt  no  age,  nor  known  no  sorrow. 

King.  This  argues  f  ruitf  ulness  and  liberal  heart : 
Hot,  hot,  and  moist.     This  hand  of  yours  requires 
A  sequester  from  liberty :  fasting  and  prayer 
Much  castigation,  exercise  devout. 
For  here's  a  young  and  sweating  devil  here 
That  commonly  rebels.     'Tis  a  good  hand, 
A  frank  one. 

Queen.  You  may,  indeed,  say  so, 
For  'twas  that  hand  that  gave  away  my  heart. 

King.  A  liberal  hand.     The  hearts  of  old  gave  hands, 
But  our  new  heraldry  is  hands  not  hearts. 
Madam,  'tis  you  that  rob  me  of  my  daughter. 

Queen.  Your  Highness  knows  that  lies  not  in  my 
power. 
If  I  might  in  entreaties  find  success. 
As  seld  I  have  the  chance,  here  in  the  court. 
Thy  beauteous,  princely  daughter  I  would  tender. 

King.  Alas,  the  heavy  day. 

Queen.  Why  do  you  weep  ? 
Am  I  the  motive  of  these  tears,  my  Lord  ? 

King.  I  have  a  salt  and  sorry  rheum  offends  me, 
Lend  me  thy  handkerchief. 

Queen.  Here,  my  Lord. 

King.  That  which  I  gave  you. 

Queen.  I  have  it  not  about  me. 

King.  ITot? 

Queen.  ISTo  indeed,  my  Lord. 

King.  That's  a  fault :  that  handkerchief — 
To  lose't  or  give't  away  were  such  perdition 
As  nothing  else  could  match. 

Queen.  Is't  possible  ? 


114  The  Tragedy  of 


King.  'Tis  true.     There's  magic  in  the  web  of  it : 
A  sibjl  that  had  number'd  in  the  world 
The  sun  to  course  two  hundred  compasses, 
In  her  prophetic  fury  sew'd  the  work : 
The  worms  were  hallow'd  that  did  breed  the  silk, 
And  it  was  dj'd  in  mummy,  which  the  skilful 
Conserv'd  of  maiden's  hearts. 

Queen.  Indeed  ?     Is't  true  ? 

King.  Most  veritable,  therefore  look  to't  well. 

Queen.   Then  would  to  Heaven  that  I  had  never 
seen't ! 

King.  Ha  ?  wherefore  ? 

Queen.  Why  do  you  speak  so  startingiy  and  rash  ? 

King.  Is't  lost  ?     Is't  gone  ?     Speak,  is't  out  o'  th' 
way? 

Queen.  Bless  us. 

King.  Say  you  ? 

Queen.  It  is  not  lost ;  but  what  and  if  it  were  ? 

King.  Assure  thyself  thou  com'st  not  in  my  sight 
Till  it  be  found. 

Queen.  I  say  it  is  not  lost. 

King.  Fetch't,  let  me  see't. 

Queen.  Why  so  I  can :  but  I  will  not  now. 

King.  Fetch  me  the  handkerchief. 
My  mind  misgives —  (Speaking  to  himself.) 

The  handkerchief. 

Queen.  In  sooth  you  are  to  blame. 

King.  Away!  {Exit  King.) 

Emil.  Is  not  this  man  jealous  ? 

Queen.  1  nev'r  saw  this  before. 
Sure  there's  some  wonder  in  this  handkerchief, 
I  am  most  unhappy  in  the  loss  of  it. 

Emil.  'Tis  not  a  year  or  two  shows  us  a  man : 
They  are  all  but  stomachs,  and  we  all  but  food, 


Anne  Boleyn.  115 


They  eat  us  hungrily,  and  when  they're  full 
They  belch  us. 

Queen.  Leave  to  wound  nie  with  these  words, 
And  speak  of  majesty  as  it  deserves. 
Where  should  I  lose  the  handkerchief,  Emilia  ? 

Emil.  I  know  not,  madam. 

Queen.  Believe  me,  I  had  rather  have  lost  my  purse, 
Full  of  gold  pieces.  {Exeunt.') 


8cena  Secunda. 


Enter  King  and  Duke  of  Norfolk. 


King.  I  saw  it  in  his  hand : 
It  was  a  handkerchief,  an  antique  token. 
My  father  gave  my  mother. 

Duke.  Had  stol'n  it  from  her  ? 

King.  'Eo :  but  she  let  it  drop  by  negligence, 
And  to  th'  advantage,  jSTorris,  being  near 
Took  it  too  eagerly — whilst  we  were  by — 
And  kiss'd  it. 

Duke.  Monstrous  1     Such  a  handkerchief — 
I'm  sure  it  was  the  queen's — did  I  to-day 
See  ]S[orris  wipe  his  beard  with. 

King.  If  it  be  that — 

Duke.  If  it  be  that,  or  any,  it  was  hers. 
It  speaks  against  her  with  the  other  proofs. 

King.  O  that  the  slave  had  forty  thousand  lives  ! 
One  is  too  poor,  too  weak  for  my  revenge. 
'Now  do  I  see  'tis  true.     'Tis  not  to  make  me  jealous 


116  The  Tragedy  of 


To  saj  my  wife  is  fair,  feeds  well,  loves  company, 
Is  free  of  speech,  sings,  plays  and  dances : 
Where  virtue  is  these  are  more-  virtuous. 
But  this  denoted  a  foregone  conclusion, 
'Tis  a  shrewd  doubt. 

Duke.  And  this  may  help  to  thicken 
The  other  proofs  that  do  demonstrate  thinly. 
He  will  have  other  means  to  cut  you  off: 
I  overheard  him  and  his  practices, 
And  will  report,  so  please  you. 

King.  Prithee,  say. 

Duke.  First,  Anne  confest  she  never  lov'd  you,  only 
Affected  greatness  got  by  you,  not  you — 
Married  your  royalty,  was  wife  to  your  place, 
Abhorr'd  your  person. 

King.  She  alone  knew  this.     Proceed. 

Duke.  Your  daughter,  whom  she  bore  in  hand  to  love 
With  such  integrity,  she  did  confess 
Was  as  a  scorpion  to  her  sight,  whose  life — 
But  that  her  flight  prevented  it — she  had 
Ta'en  off  by  poison. 

King.  O  most  delicate  fiend ! 
Who  is't  can  read  a  woman  ?     Is  there  more  ? 

Duke.  More,  sir,  and  worse :  she  did  confess  she  had 
Por  you  a  mortal  mineral,  which  being  took. 
Should  by  the  minute  feed  on  life,  and,  ling'ring. 
By  inches  waste  you.     Palling  of  her  end 
Grew  shameless  desperate,  open'd — in  despite 
Of  Heaven  and  men — her  purposes  and  said, 
"To  have  two  means  beseems  a  witty  man." 
"I^ow  here  in  court  I  may  aspire  and  climb 
By  subtlety,"  (he  said)  "for  my  master's  death 
I  may  have  means,  my  love,  and  if  that  fail 
Well  fare  another  drift."     And  she  replied. 


Anne  Boleyn.  117 


a 


To  you  I  give  myself  for  I  am  yours, 
I'll  have  no  husband  if  you  be  not  he." 

King.  Away  at  once  with  love  or  jealousy ! 
All  my  fond  love  thus  do  I  blow  to  heaven,     'Tis  gone. 
Arise  black  vengeance  from  the  hollow  hell, 
Yield  up,  O  Love,  thy  crown,  and  hearted  throne 
To  tyrannous  Hate.     Swell  bosom  with  thy  fraught, 
For  'tis  of  aspic's  tongues. 

Duhe.  Yet  be  content. 

King.  O  blood,  blood,  blood ! 

Duhe.  Patience  I  say :  your  mind  may  change. 

King.  jSTever.     My  bloody  thoughts  with  violent  pace 
Shall  ne'er  look  back,  ne'er  ebb  to  humble  love, 
Till  that  a  capable  and  wide  revenge  ' 
Swallow  them  up.     ISTow  by  yond  marble  heaven. 
In  the  due  reverence  of  a  sacred  vow, 
I  here  engage  my  words. 

Duke.  Do  not  rise  yet ; 
But  let  Heaven  witness  ISTorfolk  doth  give  up 
The  execution  of  his  wit,  hands,  heart, 
To  wrong'd  King  Henry's  service.     Let  him  command 
And  to  obey  shall  be  in  me  remorse. 
What  bloody  business  ever. 

King.  I  greet  thy  love, 
]^ot  with  vain  thanks,  but  with  acceptance  bounteous. 
And  will  upon  the  instant  put  thee  to't  . 
Within  these  three  days  let  me  hear  thee  say, 
That  ISTorris's  not  alive. 

Duhe.  My  friend  is  dead : 
'Tis  done  at  your  request.     But  let  her  live. 

King.  Damn  her,  lewd  minx !     O  damn  her,  damn 
her. 
Come,  go  with  me  apart.     I  will  withdraw 
To  furnish  me  with  some  swift  means  of  death. 
For  the  fair  devil. 


118  The  Tragedy  of 


Duke.  But  of  that  to-morrow, 
When  therewithal  we  shall  have  cal^se  of  state 
Craving  us  jointly. 

King.  Art  thou  my  lieutenant  ? 

Duke.  I  am  your  own  forever.  {Exeunt.) 


Scena  Tertia. 


Enter  Queen  and  Emilia. 


Emil.  Good  madam, 
What's  the  matter  with  my  lord  ? 

Queen.  With  who  ? 

Emil.  Why,  with  my  lord,  madam. 

Queen.  Who  is  thy  lord  ? 

Emil.  He  that  is  yours,  sweet  lady. 

Queen.  I  have  none :  do  not  talk  to  me  Emilia. 
I  cannot  weep,  nor  answers  have  I  none 
But  what  should  go  by  water. 

Emil.  May  I  presume 
To  know  the  cause  of  these  unquiet  fits. 
That  work  such  trouble  to  your  wonted  rest  ? 
'Tis  more  than  pity  such  a  heavenly  face 
Should  by  heart's  sorrow  wax  so  wan  and  pale. 

Queen.  Methinks  my  favor  here  begins  to  warp. 
What  is  the  news  i'  th'  court  ? 

Emil.  I*s^one  rare,  my  lady. 

Queen.  The  king  hath  on  him  such  a  countenance 
As  he  had  lost  some  province,  and  a  region 


Anne  Boleyn.  119 


Lov'd  as  he  loves  himself.     Why  I  should  f ear 
I  know  not,  since  I  know  not  guiltiness, 
But  yet  I  feel  I  fear. 

Emil.  Ay,  this  is  strange : 
Though  first  the  king  did  seem  to  love  you  much, 
Now,  in  his  majesty,  he  leaves  those  looks 
Those  words  of  favor  and  those  comf ortings. 
And  gives  no  more  than  common  courtesies ; 
He  keeps  you  from  the  honors  of  a  queen — 
Being  suppos'd  his  worthless  concubine. 

Queen.  Thence  rise  the  tears  that  so  bestain  my 
cheeks. 
Fearing  his  love  through  my  unworthiness 
Is  counted  lost  forever. 

Emit.  You've  made  fault 
I'  th'  boldness  of  your  speech. 

Queen.  I  am  sorry  f or't : 
All  faults  I  make,  when  I  shall  come  to  know  them, 
I  do  repent.     Alas,  I  have  shew'd  too  much 
The  rashness  of  a  woman :  he  is  toucht 
To  th'  noble  heart. 

Emil.  Do  not  receive  affliction 
At  my  petition ;  I  beseech  you  rather 
Let  me  be  punish'd  that  have  'minded  you 
Of  what  you  should  forget.     Take  patience  to  you, 
And  I'll  say  nothing. 

Queen.  Thou  didst  speak  but  well 
When  most  the  truth,  which  I  receive  much  better 
Than  to  be  pitied  of  thee. 

Enter  King. 

Emil.  Good  my  Liege — 

King.  It  is  the  cause,  it  is  the  cause,  my  soul, — 

{Speaking  to  himself.) 
Let  me  not  name  it  to  you,  you  chaste  stars, — 
It  is  the  cause.     Yet  I'll  not  shed  her  blood, 


120  The  Tragedy  of 


!N^or  scar  that  whiter  skin  of  hers  than  snow, 
And  smooth  as  monumental  alabaster : 
Yet  she  must  die. 

Queen.  Who's  there  ?  the  king  ? 

{Exit  Emilia.) 

King.  Ay,  Anne. 

Queen.  Alas,  why  gnaw  you  so  your  nether  lip  ? 
Some  bloody  passion  shakes  your  very  frame — 
These  are  portents,  but  yet  I  hope,  I  hope. 
They  do  not  point  on  me. 

King.  Peace  and  be  still. 

Queen.  I  will  so :  what's  the  matter  ? 

King.  That  handkerchief. 
Which  I  so  lov'd  and  gave  thee,  thou  gav'st  ISTorris. 

Queen.  ISo,  by  my  life  and  soul :  send  for  the  man 
And  ask  him. 

King.  Anne,  take  heed  of  perjury, 
Take  heed :  confess  thee  freely  of  thy  sin, 
For  to  deny  each  article  with  oath. 
Cannot  remove,  nor  choke  the  strong  conception 
That  I  do  groan  withal. 

Queen.  I  never  did 
Offend  you  in  my  life :  never  lov'd  ISTorris 
But  with  such  general  warranty  of  Heaven 
As  I  might  love.     I  never  gave  him  token. 

King.  By  heaven,  I  saw  my  handkerchief  in's  hand. 

0  perjur'd  woman  thou  dost  stone  my  heart, 

1  saw  the  handkerchief. 

Queen.  He  found  it  then — 
I  never  gave  it  him — send  for  him  hither : 
Let  him  confess  a  truth.     He  will  not  say  so. 

King,  l^o,  when  his  mouth  is  stopt. 

Queen.  My  fear  interprets ! 

King.  The  Duke  of  ISTorfolk  hath  ta'en  order  for  it. 


Anne  Boleyn.  121 


Queen.  What !  is  he  dead  ?     Alas,  he  is  betray' d, 
And  I  undone !  {She  weeps.) 

King.  Weep'st  thou  for  him  to  my  face  ? 
He  shall  not  breathe  infection  in  this  air 
But  three  days  longer,  Anne.     Your  loving  uncle — 

Queen.  O  Henry,  let  me  plead  for  gentle  ISTorris. 

Ei7ig.  Ungentle  Queen,  to  call  him  gentle  Norris. 
No  more  I  say ;  if  thou  dost  plead  for  him. 
Thou  wilt  but  add  increase  unto  my  wrath. 
Had  I  but  said,  I  would  have  kept  my  word. 
But  when  I  swear,  it  is  irrevocable. 

(King  walks  toward  the  door.^ 

Queen.  Whither  goes  my  lord  ? 

King.  Fawn  not  on  me,  be  gone. 

Queen.  On  whom  but  on  my  husband  should  I  fawn  ? 

King.   On  ISTorris,  Weston,  or  your  brother  Rochford 
With  whom,  ungentle  Queen — I  say  no  more. 

Queen.  In  saying  this,  thou  wrong'st  me. 

King.  Let  me  see  your  eyes ; 
Look  in  my  face. 

Queen.  What  horrible  fancy's  this  ? 
Upon  my  knee  what  does  your  speech  import  ? 

(She  kneels.) 
I  understand  a  fury  in  your  words. 

King.  Why  ?  what  art  thou  ? 

Queen.  Your  wife,  my  Lord,  your  true  and  loyal  wife. 

King.   Come  swear  it :  damn  thyself  lest  being  like 
one 
Of  heaven,  the  divels  themselves  should  fear  to  seize  thee. 
Therefore  be  double  damn'd,  swear  thou  art  honest. 

Queen.  Heaven  doth  truly  know  it. 

King.  Heaven  truly  knows  that  thou  art  false  as  hell. 

Queen.  To  whom,  my  Lord  ? 
With  whom  ?     How  am  I  false  ? 


122  The  Tragedy  of 


King.  Ah,  Anne,  away,  away,  away!     Ha,  touch  me 
not! 

Queen.  Wherein,  my  Lord,  have  I  deserv'd  these 
words  ? 
Is  it  not  enough  I  feel  a  grief  that  smites 
My  very  heart  at  root,  but  thou  must  call 
Mine  honor  thus  in  question  ? 

King.  Hear  me,  good  madam. 

Queen.  Alas,  what  ignorant  sin  have  I  committed  ? 

King.  You  are  too  familiar  with  your  brother 
Rochford. 
Could  not  my  love,  nay  more,  could  not  the  law, 
ISi&j  further,  could  not  nature  thee  allure 
For  to  refrain  from  this  incestuous  sin  ? 
Would  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  born,  Anne.     What 

committed  ? 
Committed  ?     O  thou  public  commoner ! 
I  should  make  very  forges  of  my  cheeks 
That  would  to  cinders  burn  iip  modesty. 
Did  I  but  speak  thy  deeds.     What  committed  ? 
Heaven  stops  the  nose  at  it,  and  the  moon  winks : 
The  baudy  wind  that  kisses  all  it  meets, 
Is  husht  within  the  hollow  mine  of  earth 
And  will  not  hear't.     What  committed  ? 

Queen.  By  heaven  you  do  me  wrong ! 

King.  Is't  possible  ? 

Queen.  Witness  the  tears  I  shed,  witness  this  heart 
That  sighing  for  thee  breaks. 

King.  And  witness  Heaven 
How  dear  thou  art  to  me !     There,  weep. 
You,  mistress. 

Enter  Emilia. 

That  have  the  office  opposite  to  Saint  Peter, 

And  keep  the  gate  of  hell — You,  you ;  ay,  you — 

We  have  done  our  course ;  there's  money  for  your  pains ; 


Anne  Boleyn.  123 


I  pray  you  turn  the  key,  and  keep  our  counsel. 
Speak  not  unto  her :  let  her  droop  and  pine. 

{Exit  King.) 

Emil.  What  is  your  pleasure,  madam  ? 
How  is't  with  you  ? 

Queen.  I  cannot  tell. 

Emil.  Here  is  a  change  indeed. 

Queen.  How  have  I  been  behav'd  that  he  might  stick 
The  small'st  opinion  on  my  least  misuse  ? 

Emil.  Madam? 

Queen.   O  miserable  and  distressed  queen ! 
Would  when  I  left  sweet  France  and  was  embark'd, 
That  charming  Circe,  walking  on  the  waves, 
Had  chang'd  my  shape !  or  at  the  marriage-day 
The  cup  of  Hymen  had  been  full  of  poison ! 
Or  with  those  arms  that  twin'd  about  my  neck, 
I  had  been  stifled,  and  not  liv'd  to  see 
The  king,  my  lord,  thus  to  abandon  me ! 
Some  unborn  sorrow,  ripe  in  Fortune's  womb, 
Is  coming  toward  me,  and  my  inward  soul 
With  nothing  trembles ;  at  something  it  grieves 
More  than  with  parting  from  my  lord  the  king. 

(Exeunt.) 


Scena  Qiiarta. 


Queen  seated  at  dinner.     Her  Gentlewomen  are  with  her. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  Norfolk  and  Audley, 

tlie  Lord  Chancellor. 


Queen.  I  shall  not  need  transport  my  words  by  you, 
Here  comes  his  grace  in  person. — j!^oble  uncle — 


124  The  Tragedy  of 


Norf.   Tut,  tut !     Grace  me  no  grace,  nor  uncle  me. 
I  am  no  traitor's  uncle,  and  that  word  grace 
In  an  ungracious  mouth  is  but  profane. 

Queen.  Coni'st  thou  because  the  king  is  hence  ? 

Norf.  I  come 
To  minister  correction  to  thy  fault. 

Queen.  My  gracious  uncle,  let  me  know  my  fault : 
On  what  condition  stands  it,  and  wherein  ? 

Norf.  Even  in  condition  of  the  worst  degree, 
In  gross  rebellion  and  detested  treason. 

Enter  Kingston. 

Queen.  God  for  thy  mercy ! 
What  means  this  armed  guard 
That  waits  upon  your  grace  ? 

Norf.  It  stands  agreed — 
I  take  it  by  all  voices — that  forthwith 
You  be  convey'd  to  th'  Tower,  a  prisoner. 
There  to  remain  till  the  king's  further  pleasure 
Be  known  unto  us :  are  you  all  agreed,  lords  ? 

All.  We  are. 

Queen.  Ah  cruel  chance,  ah  luckless  lot ! 
What  greater  grief  can  grow  to  gripe  the  heart  ? 
'Eoi  that  great  Tower  ? 

Norf.  Call  my  guard,  I  prithee. 

Aud.  What  ho !  the  guard !     Come,  the  Lord  Norfolk 
calls. 

Enter  the  Guard. 

Queen.  The  guard  ?     how  ?     O  dispatch  me ! 
Guard.  What's  the  noise  ? 

1.  Lady.  The  star  is  f  all'n ! 

2.  Lady.  And  Time  is  at  his  period. 
All.  Alas,  and  woe ! 

3.  Lady.  O  what  has  come  to  pass  ? 

i         Queen.  I  have  a  little  yet  to  say,  my  lords ; 


Anne  Boleyn.  125 


With  thoughts  so  qualified  as  your  charities 
Shall  best  instruct  you,  measure  me :  and  so 
The  king's  will  be  perform'd. 

Kings.  I  tell  thee,  Audley, 
To  think  the  deeds  the  king  means  to  perform 
•Doth  make  me  sorry. 

Aud.  Stand  and  see  the  rest 
To  change  that  humor.     How  falls  out  the  tide 
For  London  ? 

Kings.  ISTot  till  evening. 

Queen.  My  lords,  his  majesty. 
Tendering  my  person's  safety,  hath  appointed 
This  conduct  to  convey  me  to  the  Tower : 
Be  the  king's  pleasure  then,  by  me  obey'd. 

Norf.  Tut,  tut,  there  is  some  other  matter  in't. 

(Exeunt  Lords  guarding  the  Queen.) 

Manent  Gentlewomen. 

1.  Lady.  Hard  is  the  heart  that  injures  such  a  saint. 

2.  Lady.  I  know  'tis  'long  of  ISTorris  that  she  weeps. 
1.  Lady.  Why,  he  is  gone. 

3.  Lady.  ISTow  breaks  the  king's  hate  forth. 

1.  Lady.  Ah  !  he  I  fear,  hath  ill-intreated  her. 

2.  Lady.   Sit  down  by  me  awhile  and  I  will  tell  thee. 

1.  Lady.   Speak  not  for  him,  no  speaking  will  prevail. 

2.  Lady.  'Tis  for  myself  I  speak,  and  not  for  him. 
And  I  will  tell  thee  reasons  of  such  weight 

As  thou  wilt  soon  subscribe  to't. 

1.  Lady.   Speak  your  mind. 

2.  Lady.  Then  thus ; — but  none  shall  hear  it  but 

ourselves.  (Ladies  talTc  apart.) 

3.  Lady.  But  see,  in  happy  time  his  majesty 
Is  new  return'd ;  this  news  will  glad  him  much. 

(Exeunt.) 


126  The  Tragedy  of 


Enter  King,  Norfolh,  Suffolk,  and  others. 

King.  Prepare  jou  Lords ; 
Summon  a  session  that  we  may  arraign 
Our  most  disloyal  lady :  for  as  slie  hath 
Been  publicly  accus'd,  so  shall  she  have 
A  just  and  open  trial.    While  she  lives, 
My  heart  will  be  a  burthen  to  me.     Leave  me, 
And  think  upon  my  bidding. 

{Exeunt  some  of  the  Lords.) 
This  session — 

To  our  great  grief  we  do  pronounce — even  pushes 
Against  our  heart.     The  party  tried,  our  wife 
And  one  too  much  belov'd.     Let  us  be  clear'd 
Of  being  tyrannous,  since  we  so  openly 
Proceed  in  justice,  which  shall  have  due  course. 
Even  to  the  guilt,  or  the  purgation.  {Exeunt.) 


Scena  Quinta. 


Enter  Queen  and  Kingston  at  the  Traitor'' s  Gate. 


Queen.  O  lamentable!  What?  To  hide  me  from 
the  radiant  sun,  to  solace  in  a  dungeon  by  a  snuff  ? 

Kings.  JSTo,  noble  madam:  may  it  please  you  to  with- 
draw into  your  private  chamber. 

Queen.  'Tis  meet  I  should  be  used  so :  very  meet.  He 
doth  but  tempt  his  wife,  he  tries  my  love.  {To  herself.) 
Husband,  I  come :  now  to  that  name  my  courage  prove  my 
title. 


Anne  Boleyn.  127 


Have  mercy  Jesu !  My  grieved  spirit  attends  thy  mercy- 
seat.. 

Kings.  It  is  my  duty  to  attend  your  Highness'  pleas- 
ure. 

Queen.  Ay's  me,  from  royal  state  I  now  am  fallen! 
Ah,  Henry,  can  I  bear  this  shameful  yoke  ?  Trowest  thou 
that  e'er  I'll  look  upon  the  world,  or  count  them  happy  that 
enjoy  the  sun  ?  ;N"o  ;  dark  shall  be  my  light,  and  night  my 
day.  It  shall  be  my  hell  to  think  upon  my  pomp,  the  which 
to  leave  is  a  thousand  fold  more  bitter,  than  'tis  sweet  at  first 
to  acquire.  'Tis  a  sufferance  panging  as  soul  and  body's 
severing.  Sometime  I'll  say  that  I  am  Henry's  wife — I 
would  -thou  shouldst  know  it,  I  am  an  honest  wife — and 
he  a  prince  and  ruler  of  the  land :  yet  he  so  ruled,  and  such 
a  prince  he  v/as,  as  he  stood  by  whilst  I,  his  forlorn  queen, 
was  made  a  wonder  and  a  pointing  stock  to  every  idle,  rascal 
follower.  But  be  thou  mild,  and  blush  not  at  my  shame, 
nor  stir  at  nothing  till  the  axe  of  Death  hang  over  me  as 
sure  it  shortly  will.  I  am  in  the  extremity  of  human 
adversity.  As  a  shadow  leaves  the  body  when  the  sun  is 
gone,  I  now  am  left  and  lost  and  qijite  forsaken  of  the 
world. 

Kings.  All  the  suns  are  not  yet  set.  A  day  may  come 
to  make  amends  for  all. 

Queen.  Alack,  I  to  this  hard  house— more  harder  than 
the  stones  whereof  'tis  rais'd — return,  and  force  a  scanted 
pourtesy.  The  art  of  our  necessities  is  strange.  My  wits 
begin  to  turn. 

Kings.  Say  it  be  hard,  yet  patience  makes  that  lighter 
that  cannot  be  amended,  and  he  is  wise  that  suits  himseK 
to  the  time. 

Queen.  Go  with  me  to  my  chamber  to  take  a  note  of 
what  I  stand  in  need  of. 

Kings.  All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose. 


128  The  Tragedij  of 


Queen.  Beseech  tlie  king  to  let  me  have  the  sacrament. 
Let  them  bring  it  to  my  closet. 

The  spite  of  man  prevaileth  against  me ;  O  Lord,  have 
mercy  upon  me ! 

Kings.  Patience,  good  lady.  What  man  is  he  you  are 
accused  of? 

Queen.  They  know  that  do  accuse  me.  I  know  none. 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive,  than  that  I  know  yourself, 
may  all  my  sins  want  mercy.  My  remembrance  is  very  free 
and  clear  from  any  image  of  offence. 

Kings.  So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help 
you;  and  what  so  poor  a  man  as  Kingston  is,  may  do  to 
express  his  love  and  friending  to  you,  God  willing,  shall 
not  lack.    Let  us  go  in  together.  (Exeunt.) 


Scena  Sexta. 


ORDER  OF  THE  TRIAL. 

Duke  of  Norfolk,  as  lord  high  steward,  sitting  under  a  doth  of 
estate  with  a  white  rod  of  justice  in  his  hand.  The  Lord  Chan- 
cellor behind  him,  and  his  Majestifs  Attorney-General. 
On  benches  the  Peers:  the  Duke  of  Suffolk,  Marquis  of 
Exeter,  Earls  of  Arundel,  Oxford,  Worcester,  North- 
umberland, Westmoreland,  Derby,  Rutland,  Sussex, 
Huntingdon;  and  tlie  Lords  Audley,  De  la  Ware,  Mor- 
LEY,  Cobham,  Dacres,  SANDERS,  WINDSOR,  and  Others. 
The  Lord  Mayor  and  Aldermen,  Wardens,  and  members  q/ 
the  ^principal  crofts  of  London  in  attendance,  but  those  that  pass 
upon  her  be  none  hut  Peers. 


Nor.  Produce  the  prisoner. 

Att.  It  is  his  highness'  pleasure  that  the  queen  appear 
in  person  here  in  court.  (Silence.) 


Anne  Boleyn.  129 


Enter  Sir  William  Kingston,  and  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower, 
condibcting  the  Queen,  who  is  attended  by  Lady  Kingston 
and  Lady  Boleyn. 

No7\  Read  the  indictment. 

Att.  Lady  Anne,  Queen  to  the  worthy  Henry,  King  of 
England,  thou  art  here  accused  and  arraigned  of  High 
Treason,  in  committing  adultery  with  Hen7-y  Norris,  Sir 
Francis  Weston,  Lord  Rochford,  et  al.,  and  furthermore  of 
conspiring  with  them,  jointly  and  severally,  to  compass  and 
imagine  the  death  of  our  Sovereign  Loi^d,  the  King  thy 
royal  hushand;  the  pretence  ivhereof,  being  by  circum- 
stances partly  laid  open,  the  grief  of  this  hath  most  power 
to  do  most  harm  to  the  health  of  the  King. 

Queen.  'Not  guilty. 

Att.  Your  words  and  your  performance  are  no  kin. 

Queen.  Would  God  that  any  in  this  noble  presence 
"Were  enough  noble  to  be  upright  judge 
Of  noble  hearts :  then  would  true  nobleness 
Learn  him  forbearance  from  so  foul  a  wrong. 
I  do  desire  you  do  me  right  and  justice, 
And  when  I  give  occasion  of  offence, 
Then  let  me  die,  for  now  you  have  no  cause. 

Nor.  You  have  here,  lady. 
Men,  the  elect  o'  th'  land,  who  are  assembled 
To  judge  your  cause.     It  shall  be  therefore  bootless 
That  longer  you  desire  the  court,  as  well 
Tor  your  own  quiet  as  to  rectify 
What  is  unsettled  in  the  king. 

Att.  His  grace 
Hath  spoken  well  and  justly :  therefore  madam, 
It's  fit  this  royal  session  do  proceed. 
And  that — without  delay — these  arguments 
Be  now  produc'd  and  heard. 

Crom.  It  is  true  I  could  have  wished  some  abler 
person  had  begun,  but  it  is  a  kind  of  order  sometimes  to 


130  The  Tragedy  of 


begin  with  the  meanest.  ^Nevertheless,  thus  much  I  say 
with  modesty :  in  confutation  I  will  not  bend  myself  to  Mr. 
Attorney's  order,  but  pursue  my  own  course,  removing  all 
evasions  and  subterfuges,  which  have  been,  or  can  be  used, 
on  the  adverse  part.  Suffice  it,  that  no  material  thing  is 
objected  but  it  shall  be  answered,  what  is  of  weight  shall  be 
expressly  refuted,  the  others  of  less  importance  I  will  shake 
off  in  the  course  of  my  argument. 

The  law  hath  many  grounds  and  positive  learnings 
which  are  not  of  the  highest  rules  of  reason — which  are 
legum  leges — yet  are  learnings  received,  which  the  law  hath 
set  down,  and  will  not  have  called  in  question.  Yet  with 
such  maxims  will  the  law  dispense,  rather  than  crimes  and 
wrongs  should  be  unpunished.  You,  madam,  have  misde- 
meaned  yourself,  toward  the  king  first  and  then  toward  his 
laws :  the  deed  was  ill  to  spurn  at  your  most  royal  husband 
and  mock  his  workings.  And  touching  this  I  will  speak 
with  modesty  and  under  correction :  First  then,  my  lords, 
if  any  have  conspired  against  the  life  of  the  king — which 
God  have  in  His  custody — or  of  the  queen's  majesty,  or  of 
the  most  noble  princess,  their  daughter,  the  very  compassing 
and  inward  imagination  thereof  is  high  treason,  if  it  can  be 
proved  by  any  act  that  is  overt :  for  in  the  case  of  so  sudden, 
dark,  pernicious,  and  peremptory  attempts,  it  were  too 
late  for  the  law  to  take  a  blow  before  it  gives,  and  this  high 
treason  of  all  other  is  most  heinous,  of  which  you  shall 
inquire  though  I  hope  there  be  no  cause. 

There  is  another  capital  offence  that  hath  an  affinity 
with  this,  the  violation  of  the  honor  of  the  king's  wife,  and 
thereof  you  shall  inquire. 

In  treason  there  can  be  no  prosecution  but  at  the  king's 
suit,  and  the  king's  pardon  dischargeth. 

In  treason  there  can  be  no  accessories  but  all  are  prin- 
cipals. 

In  treason  no  counsel  is  to  be  allowed  the  party. 


Anne  Bolcyn.  131 


In  treason  no  witness  shall  be  received  upon  oath  for 
the  party's  justification. 

These  be  the  very  words  of  the  civil  law  which  cannot 
be  amended. 

Queen.  You  know  the  law.  Your  exposition  hath 
been  most  sound. 

Att.  Treason  is  a  bar  to  the  highest  inheritance — the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven — yet  the  issue  of  this  woman  shall 
inherit  the  land. 

Ci^om.  I  am  of  Mr.  Attorney's  mind,  but  in  the  mean- 
time, without  these  far  reaches,  we  should  consider  the 
perils  imminent  in  the  present  estate,  who  see  in  this  time 
the  desperate  humors  of  divers  men  in  devising  treason  and 
conspiracies,  who  being  such  men  that  in  the  course  of  their 
ambition,  or  other  furious  apprehension,  they  make  very 
small  account  of  their  proper  lives. 

Queen.  N^ow  for  conspiracy,  I  know  not  how  it  tastes, 
though  it  be  dished  for  me  to  try  how.  All  I  know  of  it  is 
that  these  are  honest  men,  which  here  you  come  to  accuse. 

Crom.  For  this  new  married  man,  whose  salt  imagina- 
tion yet  hath  wronged  your  well  defended  honor — your 
brother — being  criminal  in  double  violation  of  sacred 
chastity  and  of  promise-breach,  the  very  mercy  of  the  law 
cries  out,  death :  for  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law  hath 
full  relation  to  the  penalty.  Then,  Lady  Anne,  thy  fault  is 
thus  manifested,  which,  though  thou  wouldst  deny,  denies 
thee  vantage :  and  so  upon  the  whole  matter  I  pray  report 
be  made  to  his  majesty.  For  the  court's  obedience,  which 
is  the  relative  to  the  mandate  of  the  king,  I  said  in  the 
beginning,  the  judges  have  ever  been  the  principal  examples 
of  obedience  to  the  king. 

Queen.  Their  obedience  was  more  absolute  than  the 
commandment.  I  do  beseech  your  lordships  that  in  this 
case  of  justice  my  accusers,  be  what  they  will,  may  stand 
forth  face  to  face  and  freely  urge  against  me.     The  king 


132  The  Tragedy  of 


hath  thrown  such  despite  and  heavy  terms  upon  me  that 
true  hearts  cannot  bear  it.  A  beggar  in  his  drink  could  not 
have  laid  such  terms  upon  his  callet.  How  comes  this  trick 
upon  him  ?  Heaven  doth  know  if  some  eternal  villain,  some 
busy  and  insinuating  rogue,  some  cogging,  cozening  slave, 
to  get  some  office,  have  devised  this  slander. 

Nor.  Fie,  there  is  no  such  man ;  it  is  impossible. 

Queen.  If  any  such  there  be,  Heaven  pardon  him. 
Why  should  he  call  me  that  ?  Who  keeps  me  company  ? 
what  place  ?  what  time  ?  what  form  ?  what  likelihood  ? 
O  fie  upon  them !  Some  such  squire  he  was,  some  base, 
notorious  knave  and  scurvy  fellow,  that  turned  the  king's 
wit  the  seamy  side  without  and  made  him  to  suspect  me. 
Q  Heaven,  that  such  companions  thou'dst  unfold !  Is  there 
no  pity  sitting  in  the  clouds,  that  sees  into  the  bottom  of 
my  grief  ? 

Att.  Speak  within  door,  and  call  to  mind  your  sinful 
fact  committed. 

Queen..  If  to  preserve  this  vessel  for  my  lord  from  any 
other  foul,  unlawful  touch,  be  not  to  be  such  as  my  lord  did 
say,  I  am  none. 
"'  Att  Why  did  he  so? 

Queen.  I  do  not  know,  I  am  sure  I  am  none  such — 
O  God  defend  me  how  am  I  beset — what  kind  of  catechizing 
call  you  this  ? 

Att.  To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your  name. 

Queen.  Who  can  blot  that  name  with  any  just  re- 
proach ? 

Att.  Queen  Anne,  herself,  can  blot  out  Queen  Anne's 
virtue. 

Crom.  Fain  would  I  deem  that  false  I  find  too  true. 
It  fell  out  that  Henry  l^orris  was  entered  into  an  unlawful 
love  towards  this  lady,  which  went  so  far  that  it  was  secretly 
projected  to  compass  the  death  of  the  king,  and  so  proceed 
to  a  marriage  with  ISTorris.    One  of  the  lords,  placed  at  her 


Anne  Boleyn.  133 


chamber  window  saw  afar  off  their  amiable  encounter — ay, 
did  see  her,  hear  her —  {Reads.) 

"N orris.  Lady,  farewell. 

Queen.  Farewell,  sweet  E'orris,  till  we  meet 
again.     The  heavens  can  witness  I  love  none  but  you. 

Nor.   The  king  can  not  escape. 

Queen.  Ay,  he  shall  die.  Foreslow  no  time,  sweet 
i^orris. 

Nor.  Madam,  stay. 

Queen.  'Eo,  ISTorris ;  I  will  to  my  lord  the  king. 
You  know  the  king  is  so  suspicious,  as  if  he  hear  I 
have  but  talked  with  you,  mine  honor  will  be  call'd  in 
question,  and  therefore,  gentle  ISTorris,  pray  be  gone. 

Nor.  Madam,  I  cannot  stay  to  answer  you,  but 
think  of  Morris  as  he  doth  deserve.         {Exit  N orris.) 

Queen.  So  well  hast  thou  deserved,  sweet  Henry 
l!^orris,  as  Anne,  the  queen,  could  live  with  thee  for- 
ever." 

Att.  Confirmed,  confirmed:  O  that  is  stronger  made 
which  was  before  barred  up  with  ribs  of  iron ! 

Crom.  Thus,  pretty  lady,  I  am  sorry  for  thy  much 
misgovernment.  Behold  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here. 
O  what  authority  and  show  of  truth  can  cunning  sin  cover 
itself  withal !  Comes  not  that  blood  as  modest  evidence  to 
witness  simple  virtue  ?  Would  you  not  swear,  all  you  that 
see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid  by  these  exterior  shows  ?  Her 
blush  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty.  Most  foul,  most  fair,  thou 
pure  impiety  and  impious  purity — 

Kings.  Why,  how  now,  lady  ?  Wherefore  sink  you 
down? 

Crom.  These  things  come  thus  to  light  smother  her 
spirits  up. 

Att.  Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

Kings.  Yea,  wherefore  should  she  not  ? 

Att.  Wherefore?  Why  doth  not  every  earthly  thing 
cry  shame  upon  her  ?    Could  she  here  deny  the  story  that  is 


134  The  Tragedy  of 


printed  in  her  blood  ?  O  she  is  fallen  into  a  pit  of  ink,  that 
the  wide  sea  hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again, 
and  salt  too  little  which  may  season  give  to  her  foul,  tainted 
flesh.  Thou  seest  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left,  is, 
that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation  a  sin  of  perjury :  she 
not  denies  it. 

My  Lords,  the  offence,  wherewith  I  shall  charge  the 
offender  at  the  bar,  is  of  a  high  nature,  tending  to  the  defac- 
ing and  scandal  of  justice  in  a  great  cause  capital.  The 
king,  amongst  his  many  princely  virtues,  is  known  to  excel 
in  the  proper  virtue  of  the  imperial  throne,  which  is  justice. 
It  is  a  royal  virtue,  Avhich  doth  employ  the  other  cardinal 
virtues  in  her  service  ;  and  for  this  his  majesty's  virtue  of 
justice,  God  hath  raised  an  occasion,  and  erected  as  it  were 
a  stage  or  theater  much  to  his  honor  for  him  to  show  it,  and 
act  it,  in  the  pursuit  of  the  untimely  death  of  Queen  Kath- 
erine,  and  therein  cleansing  the  land  from  blood.  For,  my 
lords,  if  blood  spilt  pure  doth  cry  to  heaven  in  God's  ears, 
much  more  blood  defiled  with  poison.  Before  I  descend 
unto  the  charge  of  these  offenders,  which  I  will  couple  to- 
gether because  they  receive  one  joint  answer,  I  will  set 
before  your  lordships  the  weight  of  that  which  they  have 
sought  to  impeach ;  speaking  somewhat  of  the  general  crime 
of  impoisonment,  and  then  of  the  particular  circumstances 
of  this  fact  upon  Queen  Katherine ;  and  thirdly  and  chiefly 
of  the  king's  great  and  worthy  care  and  carriage  in  this 
business. 

Queen.  Impoisonment  ?  It  is  an  offence,  thanks  be 
to  God,  neither  of  our  country,  nor  of  our  church :  you  may 
find  it  in  Eome  or  Italy.  There  is  a  region,  or,  perhaps,  a 
religion  for  it.  May  never  good  betide  my  life,  my  lord,  if 
once  I  dreamed  upon  this  damned  deed. 

Crom.  My  lords,  he  is  not  the  hunter  alone  that  lets 
slip  the  dog  upon  the  deer,  but  he  that  lodges  the  deer,  or 
raises  him,  or  puts  him  out,  or  he  that  sets  a  toil  that  he 
cannot  escape. 


Anne  Boleyn.  135 


Att.  Impoisonment  is  an  offense,  my  lords,  that 
hath  two  spurs  of  offending:  it  is  easily  committed,  and 
easily  concealed.  It  is  the  arrow  that  flies  by  night.  It 
discerns  not  whom  it  hits:  for  many  times  the  poison  is 
laid  for  one,  and  the  other  takes  it.  Therefore  it  was  most 
gravely,  and  judiciously,  and  projDerly  provided  by  that 
statute  that  impoisonment  should  be  high  treason. 

But  to*come  to  this  present  case;  the  great  frame  of 
justice,  my  lords,  in  this  present  action,  hath  a  vault,  and  it 
hath  a  stage :  a  vault  wherein  these  works  of  darkness  were 
contrived,  and  a  stage  with  steps  by  which  they  were 
brought  to  light.  Queen  Katherine  was  murdered  by 
poison.  This  foul  and  cruel  murder  did,  for  a  time,  cry 
secretly  in  the  ears  of  God ;  but  God  gave  no  answer  to  it, 
otherwise  than  by  that  voice  which  sometime  he  useth — 
the  speech  of  the  people.  For  there  went  a  murmur  that 
the  Queen  was  poisoned,  and  yet  this  same  submiss  and  soft 
voice  of  God,  the  speech  of  the  vulgar  people,  was  not  with- 
out a  counter-tenor  or  counter-blast  of  the  devil.  When  it 
came  to  the  arraignment  of  Sir  Francis  Weston,  he  had  his 
lesson  to  stand  mute.  Then  followed  the  proceeding  of 
justice  against  the  other  offenders,  but  all  these  being  but 
the  organs  and  instruments  of  this  fact,  the  actors  and  not 
the  authors,  justice  could  not  have  been  crowned  without 
this  last  act  against  these  great  persons. 

]^ow  I  Avill  come  to  that  which  is  principal,  that  is,  his 
majesty's  princely,  yea,  as  I  may  truly  term  it,  sacred 
proceeding  in  this  cause. 

First,  the  charge  that  his  majesty  gave  to  the  commis- 
sioners in  this  case,  worthy  certainly  to  be  written  in  letters 
of  gold,  wherein  his  majesty  did  forerank  and  make  it  his 
prime  instruction  that  it  should  be  carried  without  touch 
to  any  that  were  innocent.  I  see  plainly  that  at  the  first, 
till  farther  light  did  break  forth,  his  majesty  was  little 
moved  with  the  first  tale,  which  he  vouchsafeth  not  so 


136  The  Tragedy  of 


much  as  the  name  of  a  tale,  but  ealleth  it  a  rumor — which  is 
an  headless  tale. 

As  for  the  strength  or  resolution  of  his  majesty's 
justice,  I  must  tell  your  lordships  plainly,  I  do  not  marvel 
to  see  kings  thunder  out  justice  in  cases  of  treason,  when 
they  are  touched  themselves ;  but  that  a  king  should,  con- 
trary to  the  tide  of  his  own  affections,  take  such  care  of  a 
cause  of  justice,  is  rare  and  worthy  to  be  celebi*ated  far  and 
near.  The  king  hath  to  his  great  honor  showed  to  the  world, 
as  if  it  were  written  in  a  sunbeam,  that  he  is  truly  the  lieu- 
tenant of  Him  with  whom  there  is  no  respect  of  persons ; 
that  his  affections  royal  are  above  his  affections  private. 

!N^ow  for  the  evidence  against  this  lady,  I  am  sorry  I 
must  rip  it  up.  I  shall  first  show  you  the  purveyance  or 
provisions  of  the  poisons ;  that  they  were  seven  in  number 
brought  to  this  lady,  and  by  her  billeted  and  laid  up  till 
they  might  be  used ;  and  this  done  with  an  oath  or  vow  of 
secrecy,  which  is  like  the  Egyj)tian  darkness,  a  gross  and 
palpable  darkness,  that  may  be  felt. 

Secondly,  I  shall  prove  and  observe  unto  you  the  cau- 
tions of  these  poisons ;  that  they  might  not  be  too  swift,  lest 
the  world  should  startle  at  it  by  the  suddenness  of  the 
dispatch,  but  they  must  abide  long  in  the  body  and  work  by 
degrees. '  For  the  nature  of  the  proofs,  your  lordship  must 
consider,  that  impoisonment  of  all  offences  is  most  secret; 
so  secret  as  that  if  in  all  cases  of  impoisonment  you  should 
require  testimony,  you  were  as  good  proclaim  impunity. 
Who  could  have  impeached  Livia,  by  testimony,  of  the 
poisoned  figs  upon  the  tree  which  her  husband  was  wont  to 
gather  with  his  o^vn  hands  ?  The  cases  are  infinite,  and 
need  not  be  spoken  of,  of  the  secrecy  of  impoisonments ; 
but  wise  triers  must  take  upon  them,  in  these  secret  cases, 
Solomon's  spirit,  that  where  there  could  be  no  witnesses, 
collected  the  act  by  the  affection.  Madam,  the  first  head 
or  proof  thereof,  is :  that  there  was  a  root  of  bitterness,  a 


Anne  Boleyn.  137 


mortal  malice  or  hatred,  mixed  with  deep  and  bottomless 
fears  that  you  had  toward  Queen  Katherine  and  the  Prin- 
cess Marj. 

And  lastly,  my  lords,  I  shall  show  you  the  rewards  of 
this  impoisonment  first  demanded  by  Sir  Francis  Weston 
and  denied  because  the  deed  was  not  done,  but  after  the 
deed  was  done  and  perpetrated — that  the  queen  was  dead — 
then  performed.  Her  proceeding  herein  is  not  by  degrees 
and  by  stealth,  but  absolute  and  at  once.  But  these  things 
were  not  done  in  a  corner.  I  need  not  speak  of  them.  And 
so  without  farther  aggravation  of  that  which  in  itself  bears 
its  own  tragedy,  I  will  conclude  with  the  confessions  of  this 
lady  herself. 

Queen.     Since  what  I  am  to  say,  must  be  but  that 
Which  contradicts  my  accusation,  and 
The  testimony,  on  my  part,  no  other 
But  what  comes  from  myself,  it  shall  scarce  boot  me 
To  say,  Not  guilty — mine  integrity 
Being  counted  falsehood,  shall,  as  I  express  it, 
Be  so  receiv'd.     But  thus,  if  Powers  Divine 
Behold  our  human  actions,  as  they  do, 
I  doubt  not  then,  but  innocence  shall  make 
False  accusation  blush,  and  tyranny 
Tremble  at  patience.     You,  my,  lord,  best  know — 
Who  least  will  seem  to  do  so — my  past  life 
Hath  been  as  continent,  as  chaste,  as  true. 
As  I  am  now  imhappy — which  is  more 
Than  history  can  pattern,  though  devis'd 
And  play'd  to  take  spectators.     For  behold  me, 
A  fellow  of  the  royal  bed,  which  owe 
A  moiety  of  the  throne,  a  true  and  humble  wife, 
The  mother  of  a  hopeful  princess,  standing 
To  prate  and  talk  for  life  and  honor  'fore 
Who  please  to  come  and  hear.     For  life,  I  prize  it 
As  I  weigh  grief — which  I  would  spare :  for  honor,  ; 


138  The  Tragedy  of 


'Tis  a  derivative  from  me  to  mine, 

And  only  that  I  stand  for.     I  appeal 

To  the  conscience  of  the  king  to  do  me  right. 

Justice  I  do  desire,  but  I  have  here 

ISTo  judge  indifferent,  nor  no  more  assurance 

Of  equal  friendship,  and  proceeding.      Sirs, 

Have  I,  with  all  my  full  affections. 

Still  met  the  king  ?     Lov'd  him  next  Heav'n  ?  obey'd  him  ?' 

Been — out  of  fondness — superstitious  to  him  ? 

Almost  forgot  my  prayers  to  content  him  ? 

At  all  times  to  his  will  conformable  ? 

Ever  in  fear  to  kindle  his  dislike. 

Yea,  subject  to  his  countenance — glad  or  sorry 

As  I  saw  it  inclin'd — and  am  I  thus  rewarded  ? 

My  lords,  this  is  not  well.     When  was  the  hour 

I  ever  contradicted  his  desire  ? 

Or  made  it  not  mine  too  ?     Or  which  of  his  friends 

Have  I  not  strove  to  love,  although  I  knew 

He  were  mine  enemy  ?     What  friend  of  mine 

That  had  to  him  deriv'd  his  anger,  did  I 

Continue  in  my  liking  ?     J^ay,  gave  notice 

He  was  from  thence  discharg'd.  For  Henry  ISTorris — 

With  whom  I  am  accus'd- — I  do  confess 

I  lov'd  him  as  in  honor  he  requir'd. 

With  such  a  kind  of  love  as  might  become 

A  lady  like  me :  with  a  love  even  such. 

So,  and  no  other,  as  himself  commanded. 

Which  not  to  have  done,  I  think  had  been  in  me 

Both  disobedience  and  ingratitude 

To  him  and  toward  his  friend  ;  but  if  one  jot 

Beyond  the  bound  of  honor,  or  in  act  or  will 

That  way  inclining,  hardened  be  the  hearts 

Of  all  that  hear  me,  and  my  near'st  of  kin 

Cry  fie  upon  my  grave. 


Anne  Boleyn.  139 


Att.     I  ne'er  heard  yet, 
That  any  of  these  bolder  vices  wanted 
Less  impudence  to  gainsay  what  they  did, 
Than  to  perform  it  first. 

Queen.     That's  true  enough, 
Though  'tis  a  saying,  sir,  not  due  to  me. 

Att.     You  will  not  own  it  ? 

Queen.     More  than  mistress  of, 
Which  comes  to  me  in  name  of  fault,  I  must  not 
At  all  acknowledge.     Here  I  kneel.  (^8he  kneels.) 

My  Lords, 
The  King's  abus'd  by  some  most  villainous  knave. 
If  e'er  my  will  did  trespass  'gainst  his  love, 
Either  in  discourse  of  thought  or  actual  deed, 
Or  that  mine  eyes,  mine  ears,  or  any  sense 
Delighted  them ;  or  any  other  form ; 
Or  that  I  do  not  yet,  and  ever  did. 
And  ever  will — though  he  do  shake  me  off 
To  beggarly  divorcement — love  him  dearly, 
Comfort  forswear  me.     Unkindness  may  do  much, 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life. 
But  never  taint  my  love.     I  cannot  say — 
It  does  abhor  me  now  to  speak  the  word ; 
To  do  the  act,  that  might  the  addition  earn, 
Not  the  world's  mass  of  vanity  could  make  me. 
Most  heartily  I  do  beseech  the  court 
To  give  me  judgment.     If  I  be  condemn'd 
Upon  surmises — all  proofs  sleeping  else, 
But  what  your  jealousies  awake — I  tell  you 
'Tis  rigor  and  not  law. 

The  Dukes  of  Norfolk,  Suffolk,  and  Exeter  con- 
sult together.  Northumberland  leaves  the 
court.  Norfolk  asks  the  several  voices  of 
every  one  of  the  Peers,  and  the  Queen  is  'pro- 
nounced guilty. 


140  The  Tragedy  of 


Norf.     Stand  forth  Anne, 
The  Queen  of  England  and  our  sovereign's  wife. 
God  quit  jou  in  His  mercy — hear  your  sentence : 
Here  on  the  Green  you  shall  be  burnt  to  asEes, 
Or  beheaded  publicly  for  your  offence, 
Where  and  what  time  his  majesty  shall  please. 
This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.    You,  constable. 
Take  her  from  hence  to  prison  back  again, — 
From  thence  unto  the  place  of  execution. 

Queen.     O  Father,  O  Creator,  Thou  who  art 
The  way,  the  truth,  the  life,  Thou  knowest  all. 
Thou  knowest  I  have  not  deserv'd  this  death. 
To  Thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul 
Is  all  unclasp'd :  naught  can  be  hid  from  Thee, 
And  Thou  acknowledgest  the  upright  in  heart. 

{Silence.) 

My  Lord, 
Thy  tongue  pronounc'd  the  sentence  of  my  ruth. 
I  will  not  cry  against  the  rectorship 
Of  judgment — nay,  I  will  not  so  presume — 
I  will  not  say  withal  that  my  opinions 
Should  be  preferr'd,  and  yet,  this  judgment 
Inf  erreth  arguments  of  mighty  strength. 
But  my  integrity  ne'er  knew  the  crimes 
That  you  do  charge  me  with.     I  cannot  pray, 
God  pardon  sin  that  I  have  ne'er  committed. 
King  Henry's  faithful  and  anointed  Queen  am  I, 
His  faithful  wdfe,  and  loyal  to  my  vows. 
Disloyal  ?  no :  I'm  punish'd  for  my  truth : 
So  come  my  soul  to  bliss  as  I  speak  true. 
But  when  I  call  to  mind  his  gracious  favors 
Done  to  me,  undeserving  as  I  am — 
How  he  did  gild  our  bridal,  make  me  rich 
In  titles,  honor,  and  promotions — 
Our  crown  and  dignity,  a  Queen — 


Anne  Boleyn.  141 


I  must  needs  say  I  have  a  little  fault : 

I  have  not  at  all  times  alike  preserv'd 

A  modest  stillness  and  humility ; 

I  have  too  much  believ'd  mine  own  suspicion ; 

Yet  so  far  hath  discretion  fought  with  nature, 

That  which  I  would  discover  I  conceal'd 

Indifferent  well. 

O  husband,  God  doth  know — 
God  is  my  witness — in  no  other  way 
Have  I  fail'd  toward  thee.  In  the  hour  of  death, 
I  will  confess  no  other.     Life  is  grown 
Too  cheap  in  these  times,  for,  my  lords,  'tis  set 
At  th'  price  of  words,  and  every  petty  scorn 
Can  have  no  other  reparation.     ISTay, 
Think  not  I  would  prolong  awhile  my  life. 
Or  that  I'm  rapt  in  spirit,  and  lay  not 
The  honor  of  my  chastity  to  heart : 
For  'tis  not  life  that  I  have  begg'd  so  long — 
Sweet  lords,  I've  stood  upon  my  chastity. 
Upon  my  nuptial  vow,  my  loyalty. 
And  I  shall  carry  this  unto  my  grave ; 
My  constancy  shall  conquer  death  and  shame. 
My  husband  is  on  earth,  my  faith  in  heaven : 
What  God  hath  won,  that  hath  he  fortified — 
My  faith. — O  God,  Thou  teachest  how  to  die ! 
O,  what  a  happy  title  do  I  find, 
Happy  to  have  Thy  love,  happy  to  die ! 

{The  Queen  rises  to  her  feet,  and  gathering  up 
her  robes,  slowly  leaves  the  Court.) 


142  The  Tragedy  of 


Scena  Septima. 


Enter  King  and  Huntsmen  to  a  breakfast  under  a  greenwood 

tree  rising  on  a  high  level  overlooking  the  Thames. 

Horses  ready  for  the  chase  close  by,  and  dogs  held 

by  men  in  livery  of  green  and  white. 


1.  Hunts.  But  that  thou  told'st  me  thou  wouldst  hunt 

to-day, 
I'd  to  the  Tower  with  all  the  haste  I  could 
To  view  the  execution. 

2.  Hunts.  So  say  I. 

King.  I  may  truly  say  it  is  a  novelty 
To  th'  world. 

3.  Hunts.  Right,  so  I  say. 
2.  Hunts.  So  'tis. 

King.   The  executioners  well-laboring  sword 
Will  soon  dispatch't. 

1.  Hunts.  The  time  is  very  short. 

King.  And  I  am  nothing  slow  to  slack  his  haste, 
For  Venus  smiles  not  in  a  house  of  tears. 
By  Him  that  made  us  all,  I  am  resolv'd — 
'Now  do  you  know  the  reason  of  this  haste  ? 

2.  Hunts.  I  would  I  knew  not  why  it  should  be  slow'd. 

{Speaking  to  himself.) 
King.  It  hastes  our  marriage  with  the  Lady  Jane, 
That  I  must  wed. 

2.  Hunts.  I  wonder  at  this  haste. 
Delay  this  marriage  for  a  month,  a  week. 

King.  By  my  soul,  bethink  you :  I'll  not  be  forsworn. 
Talk  not  to  me,  for  I'll  not  speak  a  word. 

2.  Hunts.   O  God  in  heaven,  how  shall  this  be 
prevented  ? 


Amie  Boleyn.  143 


King.  I'll  have  this  knot  knit  up  to-morrow  morning. 

2.  Hunts.  A  poor  knight's  daughter  is  unequal  odds. 

3.  Hunts.  jSTot  whom  we  will  but  whom  his  grace 

affects 
Must  be  companion  of  his  nuptial  bed : 
Her  peerless  feature,  joined  with  her  birth, 
Approves  her  fit  for  none  but  for  a  king. 
Her  valiant  courage  and  undaunted  spirit, 
More  than  in  women  commonly  is  seen. 
Will  answer  our  hope  in  issue  of  a  king : 
For  Henry,  son  unto  a  conqueror. 
Is  likely  to  beget  more  conquerors. 
If  with  a  lady  of  so  high  resolve 
As  is  Jane  Seymour,  he  be  link'd  in  love. 
Then  yield,  my  lords,  and  here  conclude  with  me, 
Jane  Seymour  shall  be  queen  and  none  but  she. 

King.  I  feel  such  sharp  dissensions  in  my  breast, 
Such  fierce  alarums  both  of  hope  and  fear. 
As  I  am  sick  with  working  of  my  thoughts. 

1.  Hunts.  They  set  black  streamers  in  the  firmament. 

{Looking  out  toward  the  Tower.) 
An  end,  sir,  to  your  business. 

King.  Well,  well,  'tis  done. 

2.  Hunts.  'Tis  past,  and  yet  it  is  not. 
King.  Xow  the  pledge,  now,  now ! 

Farewell,  fair  Anne,  one  eye  yet  looks  on  thee, 

But  with  the  heart  the  other  eye  doth  see. 

Give  me  the  cup :  come  on.  (A  trumpet  sounds.) 

The  trumpet  speaks. 

The  trumpet  to  the  cannoneer  without, 

(Report  of  a  cannon.) 
The  cannon  to  the  heavens,  the  heavens  to  earth. 
IsTow  the  king  drinks  to  th'  heir  unto  the  croAvn. 
The  peace  of  England  and  our  person's  safety 
Enforc'd  us  to  this  execution. 


144  The  Tragedy  of 


1.  Hunts.  All's  done  my  lord. 

King.  It  is. 

1.  Hunts.  Why  stay  we  then  ? 

King.  Go  one  of  you,  find  out  tlie  forester, 
Tor  now  our  observation  is  perform' d. 
And,  since  we  have  the  vaward  of  the  day, 
My  love  shall  hear  the  music  of  my  hounds. 
Uncouple  in  the  western  valley,  let  them  go. 
Dispatch,  I  say,  and  find  the  forester. 

(Hoims.     Shout.     All  start  up.) 


Scena  Octava. 


Enter  Arundel  and  two  or  three  other  Lords. 


1.  Lord.  My  lord,  do  you  hear  the  news  ? 

2.  Lord.  What  news,  my  lord  ? 

1.  Lord.  Why  man,  they  say  there  is  great  execution 
Done  through  the  realm — my  lord  of  Arundel, 
You  have  the  note,  have  you  not  ? 

Arun.  From  the  lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  my  lord. 

1.  Lord.  I  pray,  let  us  see  it. 

(Tahes  the  note  from  Arundel.) 
What  have  we  here  ?  (Reads  the  names.) 

Anne,  Queen  of  England;  George,  Lord  Rochford; 
Sir  Francis  Weston,  and  Henry  Norris,  Gent. 

2.  Lord.  The  Queen  is  dead.  Ah  Queen,  sweet  Queen, 
So  full  of  ruth  and  pity  to  the  poor. 

1.  Lord.   The  scourge  to  England  and  to  English 
dames. 


Anne  Boleyn.  145 


]^ow  triumphs  England's  Henry  with  his  friends. 
2.  Lord.  And  triumphs  uncontroU'd,  unhappy 
chance ! 
All  pomp  in  time  must  fade  and  grow  to  nothing : 
TJnconstant  Fortune  still  will  have  her  course. 
My  king,  my  king. 

1.  Lord.  Yet  grieve  thou  not  her  fall : 
She  was  too  base  a  spouse  for  such  a  prince. 

Arun.  What  end  hath  treason  but  a  sudden  fall  ? 

2.  Lord.  But  yet  methinks  Anne's  execution 
Was  nothing  less  than  bloody  tyranny. 

1.  Lord.  How  ended  she  ? 

2.  Lord.   O  rather  muse  than  ask : 
My  heart  doth  rend  to  think  upon  the  time. 

Arun.   She  was  as  calm  as  virtue.     She  began : 
"I  come  not  friends  to  steal  away  your  hearts, 
For  I  have  neither  writ,  nor  words,  nor  worth. 
Action  nor  utterance,  nor  the  power  of  speech 
To  stir  men's  blood.     I  only  come  to  die. 
I  do  beseech  you  all  for  charity, 
If  ever  any  malice  in  your  hearts 
Were  hid  against  me,  now  to  forgive  me  frankly. 
I  forgive  all.     It  is  the  law  condemns  me : 
There's  naught  hath  pass'd  but  even  with  the  law. 
Commend  me  to  the  king :  and  if  he  speak 
Of  Anne,  his  hapless  queen,  I  pray  you  tell  him. 
You  met  me  half  in  heav'n :  my  vows  and  prayers 
Yet  are  the  king's,  and,  till  my  soul  forsake. 
Shall  cry  for  blessings  on  him.     May  he  live 
Longer  than  I  have  time  to  tell  his  years ; 
Ever  belov'd  and  loving,  may  his  rule  be : 
And  when  old  Time  shall  lead  him  to  his  end, 
Goodness  and  he  fill  up  one  monument. 
Tell  him  I  have  commended  to  his  goodness 
The  model  of  our  chaste  loves,  his  young  daughter, — 


146  The  Tragedy  of 


The  dews  of  heaven  fall  thick  in  blessings  on  her, — 
Beeseeching  him  to  give  her  virtuous  breeding — 
I  hope  she  will  deserve  well — and  a  little 
To  love  her  for  her  mother's  sake,  that  lov'd  him 
Heaven  knows  how  dearly.     I  thank  you  all :  pray  for 

me." 
And  there  she  kneels  and  prays  in  silent  sort : 
Her  very  silence  and  her  patience 
Speak  to  the  people,  and  they  pity  her. 

2.  Lord.  Immaculate  devotion !     Holy  thoughts  ! 

1.  Lor^d.  Heard  you  all  this  ? 

Arwi.  Mine  ears  were  not  at  fault. 

1.  Lord.  So  ?     Have  you  done  ? 

Arun.  Her  women  with  wet  cheeks 
Were  present  when  she  finish'd,  and  she  spake : 
^Tarewell  kind  Margaret ;  Elizabeth, 
A  long  farewell.     Let  not  your  sorrow  die 
Though  I  am  dead."     Then,  "Executioner 
Unsheathe  thy  sword." 

1.  Lord.  What  ?     Not  the  hangman's  axe  ? 
Arun.  It  was  a  sword  of  Spain,  the  ice-brook's 

temper : 
He  swung  about  his  head  and  cut  the  winds. 
Who  nothing  hurt  withal  hiss'd  him  to  scorn. 
Then  with  a  downright  blow  her  head  was  sever'd. 

2.  Lord.  Peace  to  her  soul  if  God's  good  pleasure  be. 
How  more  unfortunate  than  all  living  women ! 

'Tis  clear  that  Henry  with  another  woman 
Had  f all'n  in  love,  before  he  fell  in  anger 
With  Anne.     He  is  a  man  extremely  prone 
To  loves  and  to  suspicions — violent 
In  both  e'en  to  blood  shedding.     And  besides. 
The  criminal  charge  in  which  she  was  involv'd 
Is  quite  improbable,  and  rests  upon 
The  slenderest  conjecture. 


Arme  Boleyn.  147 


Arun.  Anne,  herself, 
Made  protestation  just  before  her  death, 
A  time  not  fit  to  fashion  monstrous  lies : 
"The  trust  I  have  is  in  mine  innocence, 
And  therefore  am  I  bold  and  resolute." 
Ay,  in  the  very  hour  that  for  the  scaffold 
She  was  preparing,  all  too  confident 
To  give  admittance  to  a  thought  of  fear. 
She  call'd  to  her  one  of  the  privy  chamber 
And  said  to  him :  "Commend  me  to  the  king. 
And  tell  him  that  he  hath  been  ever  constant 
In  my  advancement :  from  a  gentlewoman 
Without  a  title,  made  me  marchioness, 
Then  rais'd  me  to  be  partner  of  his  throne, 
And  now  at  last — because  of  earthly  honor 
No  higher  step  remaineth — he  vouchsaf  eth 
To  crown  mine  innocence  with  martyrdom." 
Which  words  the  messenger,  indeed,  durst  not 
Bear  to  the  king,  who  now  is  in  the  heat 
Of  a  new  love :  but  Fame,  truth's  vindicator. 
Shall  to  posterity  transmit  the  message. 


Finis. 


APPENDIX. 

LIST  OF  WORKS  USED. 

Shakespeare. 

Title.  (Abbreviation.) 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well All's  W. 

Anthony  and  Cleopatra A.  &  C. 

As  You  Like  It A.  Y.  L.  L 

Comedy  of  Errors C.  of  E. 

Coriolanus    Cor. 

Cymbeline   Cym. 

Hamlet  Ham. 

Julius    Cassar J.  C. 

King  Henry  IV.  (I) i   H.   IV. 

King  Henry  IV.    (II) 2  H   IV. 

King  Henry  V H.  V. 

King  Henry  VI.    (I) i  H.  VL 

King  Henry  VI.  (II) 2  H.  VL 

King  Henry  VI.   (Ill) 3  H.  VL 

King  Henry  VIII H.  VIIL 

King  John K.  J. 

King  Lear K.  L. 

King  Richard  II R.  II. 

King  Richard  III R.  III. 

Love's  Labor's  Lost L.  L.  L. 

Macbeth    Mac. 

Measure  for  Measure M.  for  M. 

Merchant  of  Venice M.  of  V. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor M.  W.  of  W. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream M.   N.   D. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing M.   Ado. 

Othello  0th. 

Pericles    Per. 

Romeo  and  Juliet R.  &  J. 

Sonnets    Son. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew T.  of  S. 

The  Rape  of  Lucrece Lucrece. 

The  Tempest Tem. 

Timon  of  Athens T.  of  A. 

Titus    Andronicus T.  A. 

Troilus  and  Cressida T.  &  C. 

Twelfth    Night T.N. 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona , T.  G.  of  V. 

Venus  and  Adonis V.  &  A. 

Winter's   Tale W.  T. 

Greene. 

James  the  Fourth J.  IV. 

Menaphon   Men. 

Morando    Mor. 

Never   too    Late N.  too  L. 

Orlando    Furioso O.  F. 

The  Pinner  of  Wakefield P.  of  W. 


Peele.  "' 

Anglorum  Ferise Ang.  F. 

Descensus  Astraese De.  Ast. 

Device  of  the  Pageant D.  of  Pag. 

Edward   the   First Ed.  I. 

Merry  Conceited  Jests Jests. 

Polyhymnia    Pol. 

Sir  Clyomon  and  Sir  Clamydes Sir  C.  &  Sir  C. 

Speeches  to  the  Queen Sp.  to  Q. 

The  Arraignment  of  Paris A.  of  P. 

The  Battle  of  Alcazar B.  of  A. 

The  Honor  of  the  Garter H.  of  G. 

Marlowe. 

Edward  the  Second Ed.  II. 

Hero  and  Leander H.  &  L. 

Tamburlaine  the  Great T.  the  G. 

The  First  Book  of  Lucan Lucan. 

The  Jew  of  Malta J.  of  M. 

JONSON. 

King's  Entertainment Ent. 

The  Masques Masq. 

Burton. 

The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  (I) i  A.  of  M. 

The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,   (II) 2  A.  of  M. 

The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,   (III) 3  A.  of  M. 

Spenser. 

A  View  of  the  Present  State  of  Ireland S.  of  I. 

Hymn  Hymn. 

Sonnets    Son. 

The  Fairy  Queen F.  Q. 

The  Ruins  of  Time R.  of  T. 

The  Tears  of  the  Muses T.  of  M. 

Visions  of  the  World's  Vanity V.  of  W.  V. 

Bacon. 

Advancement  of  Learning A.  of  L. 

Advice  to  the  King Ad.  to  K. 

Advice  to  Villiers Ad.  to  V. 

Apothegms    Ap. 

Case  de  Rege C  de  R. 

Case  of  Impeachment  of  Waste C.  of  Imp. 

Case  of  Post  Nati Post  Nati. 

Case  of  Revocation  of  Uses C.  of  Rev. 

Charge  upon  Commissioners  for  the  Verge Ch.  for  Ver. 

Charge  against  Countess  of  Somerset Ch.  vs.  C.  S. 

Charge  against  Earl  of  Somerset Ch.  vs.  E.  S. 

Charge  against  Wentworth  et  al Ch.  vs.  Went. 

Chudleigh's  Case Chud. 

Church    Controversies Ch.   Con. 

Declarations  of  the  Treasons  of  Essex Dec.  of  T. 

Essays    Ess. 

Felicities  of  Elizabeth Fel.  of  Eliz. 

Gray's    Inn    Epistle G.  I.  Ep. 

History  of  King  Henry  the  Seventh H.  VII. 


Jurisdiction  of  the  Marches Juris,  of  M. 

Laws  of  England L.  of  Eng. 

Maxims  of  the  Laws Max.  of  L. 

Pacification  of  the  Church Pac.  of  C. 

Praise  of  Elizabeth Praise    of    E. 

Prayers    Pray. 

Speeches    Spee. 

Union  of  the  Laws Union  of  L. 

Editions  to  zuhich  references  are  given. 

Shakespeare First    Folio    (1623) 

Shakespeare  (not  in  folio) Harness'  Mod.  Ed. 

Greene,  Peele,  and  Marlowe Alexander  Dyce 

Jonson  (Masques  and  Entertainments) Folio  (1616) 

Burton    Shilleto 

Spenser    R.    Morris 

Bacon    Spedding,    Ellis,    and    Heath 


REFERENCES. 

The  abbreviations,  of  which  a  list  is  given  elsewhere,  refer  to  the  works 
from  which  the  parts  of  the  play  were  taken.  Each  page  of  the  Tragedy  is 
annotated  consecutively  as  to  names  of  works.  When  more  than  one  extract 
from  a  work  appears  on  the  same  page  of  the  Tragedy,  the  name  of  the  work 
is  not  repeated,  but  the  other  page  notations  are  placed  after  the  first  nota- 
tion of  the  work. 
Page. 

1.  H.  VHL  Pro.,  212;  H.  VH.  204,  214;  Oth.  320. 

2.  H.  Vn.  214;  Oth.  334;  2  H.  VL  137;  R.  in.  196;  H.  VHL  231; 

T.  A.  51;  I  H.  VI.  100,  loi;  L.  L.  L.  130. 

3.  H.  VIII.  210. 

4.  H.  VIII.  210;  M.  N.  D.  147. 

5.  H.  VIII.  210;  L.  L.  L.  127,  128;  3  A.  of  M.  66,  67. 

6.  Ham.  280,  281;  H.  VIII.  210,  211;  A.  &  C.  351. 

7.  H.  VIII.  211;  Ham.  260;  L.  L.  L.  138;  R.  &  J.  57. 

8.  L.  L.  L.  138,  139;  R.  &  J.  57- 

9.  R.  &  J.  57;  L.  L.  L.  138,  127,  129;  H.  VIII.  211. 

10.  H.  VIII.  211;  R.  &  J.  57. 

11.  H.  VIII.  211,  210;  L.  L.  L.  127;  R.  &  J.  58;  Mac.  141. 

12.  Mac.  141,  142;  3  A.  of  M.  435,  94;  L.  L.  L.  127,  129,  135;  H.  &  L.  286. 

13.  L.  L.  L.  135;  H.  &  L.  288. 

14.  L.  L.  L.  135;  H.  &  L.  286;  3  A.  of  M.  125;  M.  N.  D.  159. 

15.  M.  N.  D.  159,  151;  I  A.  of  M.  332;  Ham.  263,  267;  T.  of  S.  210;  J. 

of  M.  152;  Cor.  21;  R.  &  J.  75;  C.  of  E.  88;  Oth.  326. 

16.  Ham.  279,  259,  270;  C.  of  E.  90;  i  H.  IV.  57,  69,  55;  Oth.  338,  314; 

Mac.  133,  144;  M.  for  M.  69;  K.  L.  309,  295,  297,  302;  A.  &  C. 
352;  T.  G.  of  V.  27;  M.  N.  D.  156;  Tem.  4,  13,  12;  K.  J.  12; 
Cym.  381,  392;  T.  of  S.  222;  T.  N.  263;  H.  V.  7y,  M.  of  V. 
184;  All's  W.  252,  245;  R.  II.  24;  Lucrece,  897;  M.  W.  of  W. 
54;  T.  of  A.  90;  W.  T.  285. 

17.  I  H.  VI.  115;  3  A.  of  M.  322,  144,  45,  149;  T.  N.  269,  273;  J.  of  M. 

151;  M.  of  V.  169,  184,  170;  C.  of  E.  87,  9S;  2  H.  VI.  136;  K.  J. 


13,  ii;  T.  G.  of  V.  2i,  21,  34;  J.  C.  109;  A.  Y.  L.  I.  196;  M.  for 
M.  67;  T.  &  C.  93,  94,  88;  K.  L.  289;  T.  A.  47;  i  H.  IV.  57,  65; 
M.  Ado,  108;  R.  II.  42;  Ham.  263;  T.  of  A.  94;  A.  of  L.  286; 

2  H.  IV.  78;  T.  of  S.  229;  Tern.  11;  2  A.  of  M.  173,  176;  M.  W. 
of  W.  55;  3  H.  VI.  168;  M.  N.  D.  151;  Cym.  370;  A.  &  C.  359. 

18.  M.  of  V.  170,  184,  167,  169;  C.  of  E.  89,  88;  R.  &  J.  57;  i  A.  of  M. 

332,  420;  M.  N.  D.  162;  Oth.  335,  322;  3  A.  of  M.  60,  408,  314; 
Cym.  376,  372;  Tem.  7;  2  H.  VI.  141,  122,  134,  131;  K.  L.  292, 
288;  T.  N.  259,  264;  Son.  904;  T.  of  S.  220,  221;  Lucrece,  893; 
2.  H.  IV.  96;  M.  for  M.  78;  M.  W.  of  W.  41;  i  H.  VI.  115; 
Cor.  23;  W.  T.  284,  290;  T.  &  C.  Pro.;  i  H.  IV.  50;  J.  C.  122; 
All's  W.  237. 

19.  M.  W.  of  W.  55;  Cym.  391,  323,  396,  374;  A.  Y.  L.  I.  194;  T.  of  S. 

221;  T.  G.  of  V.  38;  C.  of  E.  94,  95;  W.  T.  290,  287,  293;  T. 
of  A.  98,  82;  2  H.  VI.  142;  Ham.  268;  i  A.   of  M.   332,  333; 
M.  N.  D.  163. 

20.  I  A.  of  M.  332;  M.  N.  D.  163,  162;  T.  of  A.  82;  A.  &  C.  348;  L.  L. 

L.  142;  Son.  (Sp.)  573,  574- 

21.  Son.  (Sp.)  574;  H.  V.  88;  Mor.  285;  Tem.  8;  i  H.  IV.  66;  Mac. 

140;  T.  N.  255;  L.  L.  L.  139,  138. 

22.  L.  L.  L.  139,  134,  135;  Men.  287,  291;  Masq.  997. 

23.  L.  L.  L.  135;  Masq.  997,  993,  926;  A.  of  P.  354;  F.  Q.  190. 

24.  Masq.  926;  F.  Q.  195,  193;  N.  too  L.  300;  R.  &  J.  58. 

25.  R.  &  J.  58,  60;  N.  too  L.  294;  Ham.  281,  273. 

26.  Per.  751;  T.  G.  of  V.  38,  21;  T.  of  S.  210;  R.  &  J.  53;  H.  VII.  209; 

H.  VIII.  214,  222,  213. 

27.  H.  VIII.  213,  214;  K.  J.  9,  3;  H.  V.  69,  70;  Cor.  13;  R.  II.  29;  T.  of 

S.  219;  3  A.  of  M.  386;  Cym.  372. 

28.  Ad.  to  V.  29,  30;  R.  III.  194,  192;  Spee.  234,  48;  Ad.  to  K.  254;  All's 

W.  244;  2  H.  VI.  122;  T.  A.  39. 

29.  M.  of  V.  166,  167;  I  H.  IV.  51;  3  A.  of  M.  264,  265;  All's  W.  251; 

R.  II.  30,  32;  3  H.  VI.  154. 

30.  R.  II.  32;  I  H.  IV.  49;  All's  W.  251 ;  T.  N.  256. 

31.  T.  N.  256,  257;  All's  W.  251,  252;  I  H.  IV.  46;  T.  &  C.  86;  M.  of  V. 

167;  K.  L.  294;  H.  VII.  215. 

32.  T.  &  C.  85,  86;  H.  VII.  206,  214;  Tem.  7;  Oth.  311;  A.  Y.  L.  I.  198, 

206;  H.  VIII.  220,  217;  M.  N.  D.  145;  Pac.  of  Ch.  107;  M.  of  V. 
169:  3  A.  of  M.  461,  458,  459. 

33.  H.  VIII.  217;  3  A.  of  M.  459,  144,  463,  468;  H.  VII.  204;  Pac.  of  Ch. 

Ill;  M.  for  M.  75,  74. 

34.  M.  for  M.  74;  2  A.  of  M.  224;  Cor.  24;  F.  Q.  420,  24;  T.  of  M.  503; 

I  A.  of  M.  417,  418;  3  A.  of  M.  382,  383;  I  H.  VI.  no;  2  H.  VI. 
144;  Mac.  151. 

35.  Mac.  151 ;  Cor.  28;  2  H.  IV.  82,  95,  94;  M.  of  V.  167;  2  H.  VI.  124 

I  H.  IV.  50;  3  H.  VI.  167.  158:  M.  for  M.  78,  731  W.  T.  298 
M.  W.  of  W.  40;  H.  V.  78;  Tem.  6,  2;  i  H.  VI.  115;  K.  J.  8 

3  A.    of   M.    382. 

36.  Tem.  18,  19;  R.  II.  43;  3  A.  of  M.  382;  T.  A.  39;  M.  of  V.  181; 

M.  for  M.  75;  P.  of  W.  257;  S.  Cal.  478. 

37.  P.  of  W.  257,  262 ;  Oth.  325,  315,  317. 

38.  Oth.  317 ;  T.  G.  of  V.  24 ;  O.  F.  96,  97 . 

39.  O.  F.  97;  J.  IV.  196,  190;  Oth.  324;  H.  VIII.  215,  214. 

40.  J.  IV.  196,  197,  198. 

41.  J.  IV.  198. 


42.  J.  IV.  198,  199,  201 ;  3  H.  VI.  159. 

43.  J.  IV.  201,  189;  3  A.  of  M.  348,  488;  R.  II.  25;  All's  W.  245;  i  A.  of 

M.  151. 

44.  I  A.  of  M.  151 ;  H.  VIII.  217,  214;  3  A.  of  M.  461,  462,  458;  i  H.  VI. 

96;  Ed.  II.  188;  B.  of  A.  427;  Cym.  376. 

45.  Cym.  Z7^\  B.  of  A.  427;  S.  of  I.  649:  H.  VIII.  219,  220,  221 ;  All's  W. 

238. 

46.  All's  W.  238;  J.  IV.  194;  H.  VIII.  220.       . 

47.  H.  VIII.  220. 

48.  H.  VIII.  220,  213. 

49.  H.  VIII.  220,  221. 

50.  H.  VIII.  221,  222,  223. 

51.  H.  VIII.  223;  Ent.  850. 

52.  Ent.  857,  851. 

SZ-    Ent.  851 ;  H.  VIII.  223,  224,  209;  R.  II.  41 ;  De.  Ast.  541 ;  W.  T.  282, 
289;  Cym.  389;  Ham.  275;  Ed.  I.  391;  A.  &  C.  347. 

54.  A.   &  C.  347,  348;  H.  VIII.  224,  213;  Ent.  856;  T.   &  C.   79,  98; 

T.  G.  of  V.  26;  3  H.  VI.  149;  K.  J.  14. 

55.  H.  VIII.  224. 

56.  H.  VIII.  224 ;  A.  &  C.  365  ;  C.  of  E.  92 ;  T.  &  C.  87 ;  De  Ast.  542 ;  W. 

T.  299. 

57.  H.  VIII.  224 ;  Ent.  850 ;  De.  Ast .  541 ;  F.  Q.  23,  94 ;  T.  G.  of  V.  26. 

58.  H.  VIII.  224,  225,  223,  215;  I  H.  VI.  no;  All's  W.  232,  238;  H.  V. 

82;  Mac.  133. 

59.  All's  W.  238;  H.  VIII.  21s;  W.  J.  20;  R.  III.  195;  2  H.  VI.  122. 

60.  M.  W.  of  W.  58;  Sq.  to  Q.  578;  De.  Ast.  541 ;  F.  Q.  200,  94,  II;  D.  of 

Pag.  537;  2  H.  VI.  120. 

61.  J.  IV.  189;  D.  of  Pag.  538;  Ed.  I.  389,  386,  409,  380,  388;  F.  Q.  11. 

62.  Ed.  I.  380,  386,  Ent.  858,  890 ;  Pol.  569 ;  F.  Q.  242. 

63.  H.of  G.588;F.Q.  242,33;  AngFe.  596,  598;  A.  of  P.  351;  Pol.  57i. 

64.  Pol.  571 ;  Ang.  Fe.  598,  597;  T.  &  C.  81,  98. 
6s.     T.  &  C.  98;  Ang.  Fe.  597;  F.  Q.  242. 

66.  Ess.  467;  I  A.  of  M.  IS,  221,  220;  O.  F.  90;  i  H.  IV.  68;  Ent.  889; 

Masq.  982. 

67.  Masq.  982;  W.  T.  291,  292. 

68.  W.  T.  292 ;  A.  of  P.  352. 

69.  W.  T.  292;  A.  Y.  L.  I.  207,  200;  R.  &  J.  56. 

70.  A.  Y.  L.  I.  207;  A.  of  P.  359,  358,  354- 

71.  A.  of  P.  355. 

•72.    A.  of  P.  368,  367;  3  H.  VI.  155,  164,  163;  R.  III.  174- 

n-    R.  HI.  173;  3  H.  VI.  162,  163;  Tern.  8. 

74.     3  H.  VI.  163;  T.  A.  36,  50. 

75-     T.  N.  260;  Cym.  388,  391;  3  H.  VI.  167;  Oth.  321,  322;  T.  A.  z^; 

J.  C.  123,  124;  R.  III.  180;  H.  VIII.  217. 
76.    H.  VIII.  217;  K.  J.  9;R.  II.  33 ;  Ch.  Con.  88. 

•jj.    H.  VIII.  209,  229,  210;  Ch.  Con.  84,  86;  K.  J.  21;  Per.  754;  T.  A.  35. 
78.     Ch.  Con.  86;  T.  A.  35;  K.  J.  9;  Ham.  280;  Oth.  322,  323. 
79-    Oth.  323 ;  T.  of  A.  88,  87 ;  3  A.  of  M.  372  ;  K.  L.  297 ;  C.  de  R.  702. 

80.  T.  of  A.  88,  89;  L.  L.  L.  128;  Ham.  268. 

81.  Cor.  10;  2  H.  VI.  138;  Cym.  389;  H.  V.  92;  2  A.  of  M.   175;  2  H. 

IV.  93. 

82.  2  H.  IV.  93;  2  A.  of  M.  178,  172;  Oth.  327,  328. 

83.  Oth.  328;  M.  for  M.  82;  2  A.  of  M.  180;  T.  of  A.  82. 


84.  0th.  328,  330;  2  H.  VI.  125;  2  A.  of  M.   196;  Ham.  268;  All's  W. 

235;  H.  V.  69,  70;  A.  of  L.  440. 

85.  A.  of  L.  440;  2  A.  of  M.  196;  I  H.  IV.  51;  Ham.  268;  T.  &  C.  86; 

2  H.  IV.  92. 

86.  Ham.  268;  0th.  333;  R-  &  J-  74!  M.  W.  of  W.  57;  W.  T.  289;  H. 

VII.  151. 

87.  H.  VII.  151 ;  M.  W.  of  W.  57;  W.  T.  283;  Ham.  269. 

88.  W.  T.  283;  T.  &  C.  92;  H.  VIII.  227. 

89.  H.  VIII.  227,  228;  A.  &C.  360;  W.  T.  298;  I  H.  VI.  96,  loi. 

90.  W.  T.  284,  285,  278;  H.  VIII.  231 :  Fel.  of  Eliz.  305;  3  H.  VI.  148, 

149. 

91.  Fel.  of  Eliz.  306;  H.  VIII.  231,  228,  227;  Cym.  371 ;  i  H.  VI.  98; 

2  H.  VI.  123. 

92.  M.  W.  of  W.  42;  T.  A.  36;  I  H.  VI.  98;  K.  J.  15 ;  2  H.  VI.  125, 

132;  Mac.  140;  Ed.  II.  187;  H.  VIII.  217;  0th.  338;  J.  C.  in; 
Mac.  143. 

93.  Mac.  143,  139,  Ham.  153;  T.  &  C.  103;  2  H.  VI.  125;  R.  &  J.  79; 

K.  J.  19;  R.  II.  25,  44;  Hymn,  592;  H.  VIII.  231.  215,  227;  R. 

III.  199;  I  H.  IV.  50. 

94.  H.  V.  91 ;  R.  II.  44;  J.  C.  130,  112,  117;  Ed.  I.  390;  T.  the  G.  10. 

95.  T.  thcG.  10;  0th.  312,313;  T.  G.  of  V.  35;  All's  W.  244,  251. 

96.  All's  W.  251;  K.  J.  6. 

97.  M.  Ado.  107;  Juris,  of  M.  611;  H.  VIII.  213.  217;  T.  of  A.  89; 

Cor.  II,  27. 

98.  Ham.  260,  261 ;  A.  &  C.  351 ;  T.  G.  of  V.  35- 

99.  T.  G.  of  V.  35,  36;  I  H.  IV.  68. 
100.    K.  J.  16,  17;  R.  &  J.  59. 

loi.     K.J.  17;  Cym.  383.384;  T.  A.  39;  M.  of  M.  64;  Ed.  II.  196. 

102.  All's  W.  244;  J.  IV.  201. 

103.  J.  IV.  201,  202;  W.  T.  294;  Mac.  151;  3  H.  VI.  159;  H.  VIII.  207; 

I  H.  IV.  68. 

104.  Ed.  II.  i8s,  191;  3H.  VI.  162;  I  H.  IV.  68,  58;  C.  de  R.  718;  Mac. 

147,  146;  T.  G.  of  V.  28;  L.  L.  L.  135;  V.  of  W.  V.  S37; 
Cym.  993;  R.  II.  24;  Lucan,  375,  376,  377 ;  T.  the  G.  9;  2  H. 

IV.  82. 

IDS.     2  H.  IV.  85;  Cor.  19;  T.  A.  33,  35 ;  Mac.  136;  T.  the  G.  25,  8;  L.  L. 

L.  142. 
106.    J.  IV.  191;  2  H.  IV.  84;  R.  &  J.  59. 

2  H.  IV.  84;  Mac.  148;  T.  the  G.  35;  K.  J.  12,  13;  Per.  760. 

Per.  760;  W.  T.  283;  2  H.  IV.  78,  97;  R-  &  J-  73;  H.  VIII.  217; 

Cym.  384. 
K.  L.  306,  307;  2  H.  VI.  134.  137;  Oth.  333;  T.  the  G.  17,  8,  9;  Cym. 

371;  H.  VIII.  217;  Ed.  II.  191.  204;  Cor.  25. 
Ed.  II.  191;  T.  A.  50,47;  Cor.  25.  27;  W.  T.  283. 
W.  T.  280,  282,  283;  Oth.  331. 
Oth.  331,  327;  R.  III.  194. 

Oth.  327,  331 ;  Ed.  II.  189;  T.  &  C.  98;  R.  III.  198. 
Oth.  327;  Ed.  II.  190;  J.  C.  122. 

Oth.  327,  337,  325,  326,  324;  T.  the  G.  20;  Cym.  396,  371  ;  J.  C.  128. 
Oth.  324,  326;  A.  Y.  L.  I.  191;  Cym.  395;  J.  IV.  211,  212;  P.  of  W. 

258;  A.  &  C.  347. 
A.  Y.  L.  I.  206;  Oth.  324.  326;  H.  VIII.  230. 
Mac.  139;  Oth.  326,  332;  T.  the  G.  20;  W.  T.  280. 
W.  T.  280,  288;  T.  the  G.  21,  20:  Oth.  335. 
Oth.  335,  336. 


107 
108 

109 

no 
III 

112 

113 
114 

115 
116 

117 
118 
119 
120 


121.  0th.  336,  331;  2  H.  VI.  135;  Ed.  II.  189. 

122.  Ed.  II.  189,  190;  A.  &  C.  365;  0th.  331,  332. 

123.  0th.  332;  Ed.  II.  190;  R.  II.  30,  32. 

124.  R.  II.  32;  C.  of  E.  96;  R.  III.  173;  H.  VIII.  229,  230;  Sir  C.  &  Sir 

C.  S05;  R.  of  T.  494;  A.  &  C.  363,  362;  H.  VIII.  230. 

125.  W.  T.  282;  J.  IV.  202;  Jests.  609;  R.  III.  173;  H.  VIII.  207;  J.  of 

M.  147;  Ed.  II.  190,  191. 

126.  W.  T.  286;  Cym.  374;  H.  VIII.  218;  0th.  332;  J.   IV.  200;  A.  & 

C.  367. 

127.  R.  III.  202;  Ed.  I.  412,  414;  H.  VIII.  227,  214;  2  H.  VI.  129;  I  H. 

IV.  65;  2  A.  of  M.  189,  193,  195;  K.  L.  296;  T.  G.  of  V.  28. 

128.  2  H.  IV.  ico;  All's  W.  247;  K.  J.  16;  2  H.  VI.  125;  M.  Ado,  115; 

A.  Y.  L.  I.  199;  T.  N.  269;  Ham.  269;  W.  T.  286. 

129.  W.  T.  286,  278;  2  H  VI  139;  K.  L.  284;  Cym.  398;  Union  of  L.  733; 

M.  Ado.  117;  L.  L.  L.  126;  0th.  319,  333;  R.  II.  39;  H.  VIII. 
218;  3  H.  VI.  150;  G.  I.  Ep.  523. 

130.  G.  I.  Ep.  523;  Chud.  618,  634;  C.  de  R.  714;  Max.  of  L.  358;  H.  VIII. 

229;  2  H.  IV.  97;  Ch.  for  Ver.  269;  Union  of  L.  733,  736,  735. 

131.  Union  of  L.  735;  Max.  of  L.  357;  M.  of  V.   180;  C.  of  Imp.   538; 

Chud.  635,  628,  633;  W.  T.  286;  M.  of  M.  82,  83;  Juris,  of  M. 
611;  C.  de  R.  688;  H.  VIII.  229. 

132.  0th.  332;  R.  &  J.  70;  M.  Ado.  114,  112;  Ed.  I.  413;  Ch.  vs.  E.  S.  313; 

Union  of  L.  733. 

133.  M.  Ado.  112,  115,  114;  Ed.  II.  199,  200. 

134.  M.  Ado,  lis;  Ch.  vs.  Went.  213,  214,  216;  Post  Nati.  523;  Ed.  I.  413; 

Ch.  vs.  E.  S.  311. 

135.  Ch.  vs.  E.  S.  311 ;  Ch.  vs.  Went.  215,  216;  Ch.  vs.  C.  S.  299,  300,  302. 

136.  Ch.  vs.  Went.  216;  Ch.  vs.  C.  S.  299,  303 ;  Ch.  vs.  E.  S.  310,  317. 

137.  Ch.vs.  E.  S.  317;  Ch.  vs.  C.  S.  303,  302;  Praise  of  E.   126;  W.  T. 

286;  H.   VIII.  218. 

138.  W.  T.  286;  H.  V.  84;  M.  Ado,  118;  M.  for  M.  79;  T.  G.  of  V.  34; 

H.  VIII.  218,  219. 
139-     W.  T.  286,  287;  0th.  332;  M.  of  V.  180. 

140.  2  H.  VI.  128;  H.  V.  75 ;  Tem.   14;  C.  of  E.  97;  R.  HI.   i99;  M. 

Ado,  112,  114;  Union  of  L.  735;  Pray.  229;  T.  N.  257;  0th.  334, 
330,  338;  Ed.  I.  408;  K.  J.  12,  7;  Cor.  13;  I  H.  VI.  117,  119; 
M.  W.  of  W.  43;  K.  L.  308;  3  H.  VI.  158;  All's  W.  246,  247; 
Ham.  270;  R.  &  J.  61,  76;  T.  A.  42;  Cym.  381;  T.  G.  of  V.  28. 

141.  T.  of  A.  96,  95;  R.  III.  184,  197;  H.  V.  77;  W.  T.  287,  291;  Ham. 

153,  271 ;  T.  G.  of  V.  28;  T.  N.  257,  297;  C.  of  E.  95;  2  H.  VI. 
124 ;  All's  W.  240  ;  i  H.  VI.  112 ;  0th.  332 ;  Ch.  for  Ver.  556 ;  J.  C. 
128;  3  H.  VI.  151;  M.  for  M.  70,  78;  T.  A.  38;  A.  of  L.  407; 
Ed.  I.  415  ;  R.  &  J.  70 ;  K.  J.  12 ;  Pray.  260 ;  Son.  37.  66,  92. 

142.  V.  &  A.  885;  I  H.  VI.  97;  T.  A.  45;  All's  W.  237;  R.  III.  175;  2  H. 

IV.  75;R.  &J.  70,  69;3H.  VI.  15s. 
143-  R.  &  J.  71;  I  H.  VI.  118,  119;  T.  the  G.  71;  All's  W.  237;  T.  &  C. 
loi ;  Ham.  281 ;  R.  III.  190. 

144.  T.  &  C.  loi ;  M.  N.  D.  158;  Ed.  II.  208;  Cym.  395  ;  Ed.  I.  406,  407. 

145.  Ed.  II.  208;  Ed.  I.  414,  415,  408,  412.  I  H.  VI.  105;  Cym.  395,  396; 

All's  W.  240 ;  J.  C.  122  ;  T.  &  C.  96 ;  H .  VIII .  212,  226 ;  M .  for  M. 
67;T.  A.  46;3H.  VI.  152. 

146.  H.  VIII.  226;  2  H.  VI.  129.  137;  M.  of  V.  132.  179;  3  H.  VI.  164,  155; 

A.  Y.  L.  I.  187;  R.  III.  198;  Cym.  395;  All's  W.  235,  233;  A.  & 
C.  367;  T.  A.  48;  0th.  338;  R.  &  J.  54;  Cor.  27;  Eel.  of  EHz.  306. 

147.  Fel.  of  Eliz.  306;  Ed.  I.  413;  2  H.  VI.  140;  2  H.  IV.  92;  Ap.  126. 


SIR  FRANCIS  BACON'S 


CIPHER  STORY. 


DISCOVERED  AND  DECIPHERED  BY 

ORVILLE  W.  OWEN,  M.  D. 


{WORD  CIPHER.) 


Sir  5^anct5  Bacon's  (Eipf^cr  Story. 


The  series  of  deciphered  writings  from  the  Shakespearean 
Plays,  the  stage  plays  of  Marlow,  the  works  of  Peele,  Green, 
Spenser  and  Burton,  has  reached  the  sixth  book,  and  others  in 
process  of  translation.  The  character  and  scope  of  the  mat- 
ter so  far  deciphered,  will  be  indicated  by  the  following 

SYNOPSIS. 


BOOK  I. 

Francis  Bacon'' s  Letter  to  the  Decipherer.  1 

Embracing  the  plan  of  the  work,  explanation  of  methods, 
and  reasons  for  writing  the  narrative  in  Cipher. 

Epistle  Dedicatory.  45 

To  him  who  shall  find  the  Cipher. 

Description  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  •  56 

The  Curse.  61-67 

Upon  those  who  have  caused  his  humiliation. 

Francis  Bacoii's  Life.  97 

Discovery  that  he  was  son  of  Elizabeth.     Confirmation  by 
his  foster  mother,  Lady  Ann  Bacon. 

Description  of  the  Reign  of  Elizabeth.  154 

The  Queen^s  Last  Days.  170 

Strangled  by  Robert  Cecil.  184 

Lady  Ann  Bacon  recounts  to  Francis  190 

The  early  life  of  Elizabeth  and  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Mary. 

BOOK  II. 

Continues  200 
The  account  of  Elizabeth  ;  the  wooing  of  Leicester  in  the  202 
Tower ;  bribes  the  Holy  Friar  to  take  him  to  Eliza- 
beth ;  frightens  him  into  performing  the  marriage  cer-  224 
emony ;  plotting  the  death  of  Leicester's  wife,  Ayme  226 
Robsart ;  Ayme  Robsart  visits  the  Queen ;  stormy  235 
interview ;  death  of  Ayme  Robsart.  248 


Second  Marriage  of  Elizabeth  and  Leicester. 

By  Sir  Nicholas  Bacon,  in  the  presence  of  Lady  Ann  Bacon 

and.  Lord  Puckering.     Account  interrupted  by  a  sum-      250 
nions  from  the  Queen.  252 

Elizabeth  and  Francis.     Banished  to  France.  256 

The  Spanish  Armada.  263 

Prologue.  Phillip  II  demands,  through  ambassadors,  the 
hand  of  Elizabeth  in  marriage.  The  alternative  of 
refusal,  the  wresting  of  the  Crown  from  her  "  unlawful 
hands  "  by  war.  Elizabeth's  reply  to  the  ambassadors. 
Pedigree  of  the  Queen.  Appearance  of  the  Spanish 
Fleet. 

The  Great  Storm.  377 

Bacon's  description.     Bacon  rescues  Don  Pedro,  the  Span- 


ish Commander. 


BOOK  III. 


The  Spanish  Armada  Continued.  40i 

Bacon  visits  the  Queen  and  pleads  for  his  prisoner  Don  Pedro  459 

whom  he  rescued  from  drowning.     Entrance  of  Lord  489 

High  Admiral,  Capt.  Palmer  and  Sir  Anthony  Cook.  492 

Don  Pedro  before  the  Queen.     Plea  for  mercy.  493 

"The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd."  494 

The  Queen  "aweary  of  his  speech,"  wishes  to  hear  the 

Admiral's  report  of  the  battle,  which   is  described.  495 

Capt.  Drake  tells  of  the  second  day's  battle.     Allegor-  498 

ical  description  giving  the  names  of  Spanish  and  Eng-  499 

lish  vessels  engaged.     Admiral  Howard  recounts  his  512 

part  in  the  fight.     Capt.  Drake  describes  the  storm.  526 

Capt.  Palmer's  experiences  in  the  German  Seas.  530 

Don  Martin,  a  prisoner  before  the  Queen.  552 

Bacon  again  begs  for  Don  Pedro.  558 

Enter  sailors  with  letters.  566 

"  The  end  has  come." 
So  by  a  roaring  tempest  on  the  flood, 
A  whole  Armado  of  convicted  sail 
Is  scatter'd  and  disjoin'd  from  fellowship. 

Epilogue.  561 

Francis  Bacon'' s  Life  at  the  Court  of  France  571 

BOOK  IV. 

Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew.  603 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  631 

Francis  Bacon  recurs  to  his  own  life.  650 

Hamlet.  652 
Discovery  by  the  Queen  that  Bacon  wrote  it,  and  the  fate 
of  the  first  copy. 

Tragedy  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  672 


Queen  Elizcibetli's  Dream.  762 

Her  indignation  and  horror  at  the  death  of  Mary. 

"  Queen.  Who  hath  made  bold  with  the  great  seal,  and  who 
Hath  inscribed  my  name?  764 

Leicester.  Your  servant,  th'  secretary, 
Brought  the  warrant  to  us,  the  great  seal  stamp'd  upon't. 

Q.  Then  there  was  a  league  between  you  to  hasten  her 
Untimely  death." 

Foreign  Ambassadors  Presented.  765 

The  Queen  explains  to  them  that  her  savage  council  have 
cruelly  slain  Mary,  and  declares  her  intention  to  hang 
her  secretary  for  insubordination, 

Bacon  Resumes  his  '•'•Life  in  France.''''  767 

Interview  between  Bacon  and  Navarre.  771 

Prayer  of  Navarre.  782 

Intrigues  to  effect  his  escape  from  France.  '                         786 

BOOK  Y. 

Continues  BacorCs  '•'•Life  in  France!'''  801 

Bacon  discloses  to  Navarre  that  he  is  heir  to  the  throne  of 
England,  lawful  son  of  Elizabeth  and  Leicester. 
Tells  of  his  banishment  and  espouses  Navarre's  cause. 

Navarre^s  Attempt  to  Escape  Frustrated.  834 

The  grand  hunt ;  Navarre's  flight. 

Baco7i's  Visit  to  the  Huguenot  Camp.  871 

Eeport  of  same  to  Henry  III.  and  to  Margaret  of  Navarre. 
Plan  of  the  latter  to  escape  to  the  camp. 

Bacon  Discloses  his  Love  to  Margaret.  926 

Ladder  of  cords.  Disappointment.  Interview  with  Friar. 
Farewell  to  Margaret. 

BOOK  VI 

(in  preparation.) 
Conclusio7i  of  Bacon's  '■'■Life  at  the  Court  of  France!'^         looi 

Anjou's  desertion  of  the  Huguenots;  his  trifling  successes 
magnified  ;  the  triumphs  or  fetes  in  his  honor. 
Catherine's  revival  of  "  The  Court  of  Love." 

Bacon  Returns  to  England. 

Stormy   interview  with  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Leicester. 
Paulet  attempts  to  negotiate  a  marriage  between  Bacon 
and  Margaret.     Second  banishment.     Visit  to  Italy. 

Bacon  follows  the  Queen-m.other  to  the  South. 

Public  Trial  of  Queen  Margaret. 

The  Assassination  of  the  Duke  of  Guise  and  the  Cardinal 
of  Lorra'ine. 

Henry  LIL.  and  Navarre  join  forces  to  besiege  Paris. 

Navarre  declared  Heir  to  the  Throne  of  France. 

Assassination  of  the  King. 

Death  of  Nicholas  Bacon;  Francis  Recalled  to  England. 


I  - 


PREFACE. 

In  Book  III  of  the  Cipher  Story,  I  took  pleasure  in 
acknowledging  the  aid  of  my  assistants  in  the  preparation  of 
that  volume.  Their  work  had  then  demonstrated  that  the  cor- 
rect use  of  the  Cipher  could  be  acquired  by  others. 

The  present  volume,  Book  V,  is  entirely  their  work,  and 
until  in  print,  I  purposely  refrained  from  reading  or  hearing 
read,  any  of  this  part  of  Bacon's  Story  of  his  Life  in  France. 
Miss  OUie  E.  Wheeler,  extracted  from  the  original  Shakespeare 
Plays,  from  Bacon's  acknowledged  works,  and  those  attributed 
to  Marlowe,  Greene,  Peele,  Spenser  and  Burton,  the  passages 
around  the  guides  and  numerous  keys.  Mrs.  Elizabeth  W.  Gallup 
and  Miss  Kate  E.  Wells,  have  deciphered  and  woven  these  pas- 
sages, by  the  rules  of  the  Cipher,  into  the  poetic  form  in  which 
they  are  presented. 

These  ladies  have  also  prepared  the  matter  for  Book  VI,, 
which  will  complete  the  account  of  Bacon's  Life  in  France,  and 
be  issued  shortly. 

I  congratulate  my  assistants  upon  their  work,  and  the 
world,  upon  this  unanswerable  proof  of  the  certainty  of  the 
Cipher    system. 

I   also   congratulate  myself  that  whatever  may  happen,  the 

important  results  of  my  ten  years'  study,  will  not  be  lost,  and 

that  the  work  I  have  undertaken,  will  not  depend  solely  upon 

one  life  for  successful  completion. 

ORVILLE  W.  OWEN.^ 
Detroit,  March,  1895. 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  work  of  deciphering  the  literature,  in  which  the  Cipher 
of  Sir  Francis  Bacon  is  found,  reveals  details  of  English  history 
of  wonderful  interest,  which  only  a  participant  in  the  events 
could  record.  Inwrought  into  this  literature  was  hidden  the 
"  Tragedy  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,"  embracing  Mary's  attempts 
to  gain  the  English  crown,  her  trial,  and  her  tragic  end,  written 
as  a  Play.  This  was  published  in  December,  1894,  and  has  been 
pronounced  a  masterpiece.  Portions  of  it  were  found  in  every 
play  attributed  to  Shakespeare,  and  in  the  writings  of  Spenser, 
Peele,  Greene,  Marlow,  Burton,  and  Francis  Bacon.  Although 
a  remarkable  production,  it  is  believed  to  be  the  first  of  Bacon's 
writings  of  historical  drama  in  Cipher,  and  it  is  chiefly  drawn 
from  the  earlier  works  and  plays,  before  they  were  re-written  and 
enlarged  in  1608-17-23,  incorporating  later  histories,  and  mat- 
ters of  profound  philosophical  significance. 

This  "  Tragedy  of  Essex,"  obtained  from  the  same  sources, 
is  a  later  production,  and  bears  the  impress  of  greater  skill,  more 
experience,  and  far  more  intense  personal  feeling.  In  it  are 
interwoven  most  important  passages  of  Bacon's  own  life.  It 
explains  Bacon's  participation  in  the  trial  and  conviction  of 
Essex,  who  had  been  his  benefactor,  and  the  seeming  ingratitude 
which  has  so  long  been  thought  a  blot  upon  the  fame  of  the 
Lord  High  Chancillor.  It  was  a  life  for  a  life !  Essex  was 
foredoomed  to  death.  The  Queen  sought  excuse  in  law  for  the 
deed  ;   her  commands  were  imperative  : — 

Queen.  *        *        Robert  Essex  was 
A  worthy  officer  T  th'  wars,  but  insolent, 
O'er-come  with  pride,  ambitious  past  all  thinking, 
Self-loving,  and  affecting  one  sole  throne, 
"Without  assistance. 


Synopsis  of  "The  Historical  Tragedy  of  flary  Queen  of  Scots. 


t% 


Act  1.— Scene  i. — Interview  between  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Counsellor  Francis  Bacon.  The  Law  of 
Treason.  *  •  *  Queen  Elizabeth  commands  the  presence  of  I,eicester,  who  arranges 
to  bring  Mary  to  his  house  in  London  for  an  interview. 
Scene  2. — Banquet  room  at  house  of  Leicester.  I<eicester  and  Mary  at  banquet  table.  Queen 
Elizabeth  secretly  enters;  hides  behind  statue.  Mary  proposes  marriage  to  Leicester, 
they  to  be  rulers  of  the  French,  English  and  Scottish  realms.     Elizabeth  steps  forth, 

"  Dolh  Scotland  make  your  Majesty  ourjudgef" 
Mary  in  surprised  alarm, 

"Alas,  I  am  undone!     It  is  the  Queen.''' 
Interview  between  Elizabeth  and  Mary;  withdrawal  of  Elizabeth  and  Leicester. 
Act  \X.— Scene  /.—In  front  of  Tower;  time,   midnight.     Stormy  interview  between  Queen  Elizabeth 
and  Leicester;  the  jealous  Queen  declares  his  banishment;  thrusts  him  away  and  enters. 
Leicester  in  rage : 

"/'//  empty  all  these  veins,  and  shed  my  blood 
Drop  by  drop  i'  th'  earth  ere  I  will  go  ! 
Let  my  soul  ivant  mercy  if  I  do  not  join 
With  Scotland,  in  her  behalf .  ' 
Enter  Francis  Bacon,  who  counsels  a  different  course.    Leicester  requests  Bacon  to 
plead  for  him  to  the  Queen. 
Scene  2  — Audience  room  of  Palace.     Bacon  pleads  for  Leicester;  calls  upon  himself  the  wrath 
of  the  Queen;  takes  leave. 

"■  No  power  I  have  to  speak,  I  know. 
And  so,fareivell,   I,  and  my  griefs  'fill  go." 
Enter  Leicester;  begs  that  he  be  not  banished;  Queen  repents. 
"  Restrain  thy  apprehension;  J  will  lay  trust  upon  thee. 
And  thou  shall  find  I  will  preserve  and  love  thee. 

I  have  conferred  on  thee  the  commandment  of  mine  army  beyond  the  sea." 
Act  hi.— Scene  /.—Council  Chamber   of   Palace.       Lords   seated   at    table:    Queen  on  the  throne; 
Elizabeth  announces    that     Leicester   is  to  command   her  armies  in   Ireland.     Strongly 
opposed  by  the  Lord  Chancellor;  Leicester  accused  of  treason.     The  Queen  overrules  the 
council;  makes  him  General  and  administers  the  oath. 
5(;e««2.— Council  Chamber— twelve  months  later.     Queen  Elizabeth  presents  the  treasons  of 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots;  gives  letter  of  commission  for  her  trial. 
ActIV.— 6<:<?«^ /.— Room  in  Fotheringay  Castle;   lords,  knights,  captains,  lawyers  and  gentlemen  in 
attendance.      Queen    Mary    before  the  Court;   notes  the  absence   of  the  English   Queen; 
demands  her  presence  — Will  be  tried  by  her  peers,  and  not  by  servants  of  lesser  degree; 
Council  show  warrant.     Mary  denies  the  charges;  so  impresses  and  moves  the  Court  that 
Chief  Justice  suddenly  adjourns  the  Court  to  London,  fearing  that  by  her  eloquence  and 
beauty  she  be  acquitted 
Scene  ^.— Room  in  Tower  of  London;    Court  convenes  to  convict  Mary;   Montague  speaks 
strongly  for  her;  members  cry  Guilty!  guilty! 
\CT  V. — Scene  i. — Palace  of  the  Queen,  Elizabeth  and  train. 

"Q.  E.     Fie,  what  a  slug  is  IVarwick,  he  comes  not 
To  tell  us  whether  they  will  that  she  shall  die  or  no. 
Ah!    In  good  time  here  comes  the  sweating  lord."     {Enter  Warwick^ 
He  announces  the  decision  of  •"  guilty."     Enter  Lords  of  Council;  they  present  Elizabeth 
the  warrant  for  Mary's  death      She  does  not  si^n  it. 

"Q.  E.     Afy  lord,  I  promise  to  note  it  cunningly; 

But  here  come  the  ambassadors  of  our  brothers  of  France  and  Spain." 
Enter  ambassadors,  who  plead  for  the  life  of  Mary. 
Scene 2. — Street  in  London.     Enter  Burleigh  and  Secretary  of  the  Queen  (Davison);  met  by 

Leicester.     All  enter  a  public  house. 
.Sc^wi?  J.— Private  room;  Burleigh  and  Leicester  force  the  Secretary  to  forge  the  Queen's  name 

to  the  warrant  for  Mary's  execution, 
^cene.^.— Chamber  in  Fotheringay  Castle— Queen  Mary  and  maids.    Enter  English  Lords. 
"Q.  Af.      IVelcome,  my  lords.-   IVhy  do  you  come.    Is'ifor  ntylife? 
Lord  Shrewsbury.    '  Tis  now  midnight,  and  by  eight  tomorrow  thou  must  be  made 

immortal. 
Q.  M.     How!    Mv  lord!     Tomorrow?  tomorrow!     Oh!  that's  sudden. 
Oh!  this  subdues  me  quite. 

*.  St-  *  * 

Good,  good  my  lord,  if  I  must  die  tomorrow, 

Let  me  have  some  reverend  person 

To  advise,  comfort  and  pray  it'iih  me."     (This  is  refused. 1 
5"c^n«5.— Hall  of  Fotheringay  Castle,  hung  with  black.    Platform  and  block  at  end.    English 
Lords  and  Gentlemen,  executioner,  and  assistants. 
Enter  Queen  Mary  dressed  in  black  and  red  velvet  gown.     The  executioner  assures  her 

"/  will  be  as  speedy  in  your  death  as  all  the  poisonous  potions  in  the  world. 

And  you  shall  feci  no  pain." 
Mary  addresses  the  Lords,  denies  the  charges,  asserting  that  they  shed  innocent  blood. 

"And  if  vou  tell  the  heavy  story  right. 

Upon  my  soul  the  hearers  will  shed  tears. 

Yea,  even  my  foes  -vill  shed  fast  falling  tears, 

A nd  sa  v  it  was  a  piteous  deed  to  take  mej'rom 

The  world,  and  send  my  soul  to  heaven." 

*  *  '  »  * 

(She  kneels  and  praysL" 
"  Oh  God,  have  tnercv  upon  me.  and  receive  mv  fainting  soul  again  !  Oh  be  thou  merciful ! 
And  let  our  princely  sister  be  satisfied  with  our  true  blood  which,  as  Thou  kno-v'st,  unjustly 
must  be  spilled  !  Oh  God.  send  io  me  the  ivater  from  the  well  of  life,  and  by  my  death  stop 
effusion  of  Christian  blood  and  'stablish  quietness  on  every  side  !  Let  me  be  blessed  for  the 
J>eace  I  make.     Amen."  (Rises.) 

"  Farewell.  s~ceet  Lords;  let's  meet  in  heaven 
Good  my  Lord  of  Derby,  lead  me  to  the  block." 

(Speaks  to  Executionei.) 
Fi^-is 


PUBLISHERS  NOTE. 


The  present  volume,  "The  Tragical  History  of  Our  Late 
Brother,  Earl  of  Essex,"  is  published  separately,  out  of  its 
consecutive  order,  being  comiDlete  in  itself,  and  of  the  most 
thrilling  interest  and  historical  value,  that  it  may  be  the 
earlier  enjoyed  as  one  of  the  marvels  of  literature,  in  advance 
of  its  appearance  as  a  part  of  the  later  books  of  the  series  of 
Sir  Francis  Bacon's  Cipher  Writings. 

Like  its  immediate  predecessor,  "  The  Tragedy  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,"  it  has  been  deciphered  from  the  Shakespeare 
Plays,  and  other  works  of  Bacon,  by  means  of  the  Cipher 
system,  discovered  by  Doctor  Owen,  through  which  the  hidden 
histories  are  being  brought  to  light. 

In  the  first  book  of  the  "  Cipher  Story,"  issued  in  October, 
1893,  was  the  astounding  statement  that  the  great  Chancillor 
was  the  son  of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of 
Leicester ;  and  that  Robert,  Earl  of  Essex,  was  his  brother. 
Corroboration  of  this  is  found  in  the  recently  published  British 
"Dictionary  of  National  Biography,"  Vol.  16,  page  114,  under 
the  heading  "  Dudley  : — 

"  Whatever  were  the  Queen's  relations  with  Dudley  before  his  wife's 
death,  they  became  closer  after.  It  was  reported  that  she  was  formally 
betrothed  to  him,  and  that  she  had  secretly  married  liiin  in  Lord  Pem- 
broke's house,  and  that  she  vxts  a  mother  already." — January,  1560-1. 

"In  1562  the  reports  that  Elizabeth  had  children  by  Dudley  were 
revived.  One  Robert  Brooks,  of  Devizes,  was  sent  to  prison  for  publish- 
ing the  slander,  and  seven  years  later  a  man  named  Marsham,  of 
Norwich,  was  punished  for  the  same  offence." 

This  Tragedy  confirms   the  statement. 

The    Comedy  referred  to   in   the   Prologue    is   now   being 

translated. 

"The  players  that  come  forth,  will  to  the  life  present 
The  pliant  men  that  we  as  masks  employ : 
An  excellent  device  to  tell  the  plot. 
And  all  our  cipher  practice  to  display." 

HOWARD  PUBLISHING  CO. 
March,  1895. 


The  Prologue. 

Scattered  through  the  Shakespeare  Plays  are  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  thoughts  and  poetic  conceptions,  which  have 
become  familiar  household  words.  But  they  are  fragmentary, 
and  interpolated  with,  and  surrounded  by,  irrelevant  and  incon- 
gruous matters,  neither  suggesting  them,  or  by  them  suggested. 
The  appearance  of  a  ghost  in  Hamlet  is  inconsistent  with 

The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  borne 
No  traveller  returns. 

The  Cipher  gathers  these  fragments  together  in  proper  sequence, 
in  the  Prologue  to  this  Tragedy  of  Essex,  where  they  take  the 
form  of  a  soliloquy,  embodying  the  deepest  philosophy  concern- 
ing things  natural  and  spiritual,  temporal  and  eternal.  It  is  a 
retrospect,  and  a  wail  of  remorse,  as  well  as  a  speculation  as  to 
the  future  state.  This  wonderful  Prologue  can  only  be  measured 
from  the  point  of  view  of  its  author,  Francis  Bacon.  Lost  in 
reminiscence  and  contemplation,  he  weighs  that  destiny  which 
has  been  beyond  his  control. 

Which  hath  the  primal  curse  upon  it,  a  brother's  murder. 

To  the  Seven  Ages  of  Man,  so  well  known  as  an  epitome  of 
human  life,  the  Cipher  adds  another,  which  rounds  out  and  fin- 
ishes the  story  with  the  "  exit,"  from  human  view,  of  all  that  is 
mortal. 

Last  scene  of  all 

That  ends  this  strange  eventful  history, 
The  old  man  dies ;  and  on  the  shoulders  of  his  brethren 
To  the  heavy  knolled  bells  is  borne, 
In  love  and  sacred  pity,  through  the  gates 
Of  the  holy  edifice  of  stone,  where  all  in  white 
The  goodly  vicar  meets  them  and  doth  say : — 
"  I  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life  ;" 
And  then  doth  mount  the  pulpit  stairs  and  doth  begin : — 
"  O  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  wretched  sinners  !  " 
The  people  answering  cry  as  with  one  voice : — 
"  0  Lord  have  mercy  on  us  vvTetched  sinners  !  " 
Then  througli  the  narrow  winding  church-way  paths, 
With  weary  task  foredone,  under  the  shade 
Of  melancholy  boughs,  gently  set  down 
Their  venerable  burden,  and  from  the  presence 
Of  the  sun  they  lower  him  into  the  tomb. 
To  sleep,  perchance  to  dream  ;  aye,  there's  th'  rub, 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death,  what  dreams  may  come, 
•  When  we  have  shuffl'd  off  this  mortal  coil, 


Must  give  us  pause.     To  die,  to  sleep,  to  dream 
No  more  ;  and  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish'd.     For  in  our  graves, 
After  life's  fitful  fever,  one  sleeps  well. 

********* 

But  for  our  conscience  then,  we'ld  rear  our  hand 

And  play  the  Roman  fool  and  die  on  our  own  swcrd : 

We,  with  three  inches  of  this  obedient  steel, 

No  better  than  the  earth  ourselves  could  make. 

O  what  a  sleep  were  this,  if  'twere  perpetual ! 

But  there's  a  prohibition  so  divine 

Against  self-slaughter,  in  the  Holy  Scripture, 

It  cravens'  our  weak  hand  and  doth  return 

The  sword  obedient  to  tlie  scabbard. 

The  decipherer  can  understand  perhaps  better  than  another, 
the  feeling  that  the  translated  text  lacks  some  of  the  qualities 
called  Shakespearean.  The  Plays  are  full  of  ambiguous  incon- 
gruities and  obscure  allusions  that  have  the  charm  of  mystery, 
and  excite  wonder  at  the  genius,  that  from  such  distant  and 
widely  scattered  sources  could  draw  its  inspiration.  The 
commentators  have  failed  to  explain  them.  When,  however 
these  expressions  are  segregated,  and  rounded  out  by  the 
additions  which  the  CijDher  brings  from  the  other  works,  they 
become  smooth,  reasonable,  and  historically  accurate,  and  the 
great  thoughts  of  that  great  constructive  genius,  the  author 
of  them  all,  are  presented  in  their  primal  form. 

ORVILLE  W.  OWEN. 
Detroit,  February,  1895. 


Synopsis  of  "  The  Tragical  Historic  of  the  Earl  of  Essex." 

PROLOGUE. 

Act  1. — Scene  i. — Horns  and  trumpets  sound.     Enter  Queen  Elizabeth  with  hounds  and  dogs,  returning 
from  hunt       Queen  and   Huntsman.      Enter  Earl   of  Essex  and   Francis    Bacon. 
Queen  dismisses  attendants.     Essex  announces  insurrection  in  Ireland. 
Scene  ^— Palace.     Stormy  discussion  over  assignment  of  commander  of  forces  for  Ireland. 
Queen  to  Essex  :     "  Take  thou  t/iat.^'     (Boxes  his  ears.) 
Essex  assays  to  dra-w  his  sword  ;  defies  her  and  leaves  in  a  rage. 
Queen  relents,  and  sends  the  Admiral  and  Cecil  to  call  him  back 
Scene  j. — Cecil,  Solus.     Enter  Essex  ;  the  quarrel  and  blow. 
Scene  4. — Queen  and  Cecil.     Prayer  of  the  Queen  : 

"  I  that  never  iveep,  now  melt  with  woe. 
That  my  ungracious  son  doth  hate  me  so." 
Scene  5.— LsiAy  Essex' warns  the  Earl  against  Cecil.  Bacon  and  Essex.   Rival  claims  to  the  Crown. 
Act  n. — Scene  i. — Elizabeth  and  Lords.     Queen  announces  that  Essex  will  go  to  Ireland. 
Dismisses  all  but  Essex,  to  whom  she  promises, 

"     *      *      *      *      The  next  degree  shall  be 
England' s  royal  throne,  for  King  of  Ejigland 
Shall  you  be  proclaimed  in  every  borough,'''' 
Scene  2.— Essex  ;  outlines  his  puposes  in  Ireland. 
Scene  j.— Essex  and  Bacon  ;  farewell. 
Act  iii~Scene  /.—Cecil  tells  the  Queen  that  Essex  is  returning  with  an  army. 

Scene  2.— Elizabeth  walks  in  her  sleep.     Her  horrible  dream.     Queen  and  ladies  in  prayer. 
Scene  J.— 'Bed  chamber  of  Queen  ;  noisy  arrival  of  Essex.     The  Queen  bids  that  he  be  admitted. 
"  Bless  thee,  my  blessed  boy, 
*  +  * 

Then,  sir,  luithdraiv,  and  in  an  hour  return^'' 
Ladies  in  waiting  dress  the  Queen  in  handsome  robes.    Essex  returns  ;  Queen  embraces  him. 
He  discourses  of  Ireland  and   claims  the   Dukedom   of   York.     {Exit.)    Enter  Cecil,   who 
frightens  the  Queen  with  false  reasons  for  Essex's  sudden  return. 
Scene  4. — Bacon  tells  Essex  of  Cecil's  intrigues,  and  bids  him  fly  to   France.     Enter   Queen  ; 
Shows  displeasure  at  Essex's  return,  and  bids  him  go  to  his  home. 
Act  IV. — Scene  I. — Council  Chamber.     Queen  informs  Essex  he  must  appear  before  the  Council. 
*  *  *  But  if,  sir, 

You  be  put  in  bondage,  appeal  to  us. 
And  deliver  us  this  ring.         *         *         >i 
Essex  before  the  Council.     Insults  Cecil. 
Scene  2. — Essex  commanded  to  close  confinement  in  his  house. 
Scene 3. — Quarrels  with  his  brother  Francis  Bacon. 

Scene  4. — Queen  and  Bacon.     Bacon  pleads  for  Essex.     Interrupted  by  news  of  Essex's  revolt. 
Scene  jr.— Gate  of  Essex's  House.     Lords  demand  his  surrender  ;  Essex's  soldiers  surround  and 

take  them  away. 
Scene  6.— Street  in  London.     Essex  endeavors  to  incite  the  mob  to  burn  and  plunder. 
Scene -J. — Front  of  Essex's  ?Iouse — Essex  on  walls.     Alarms  and  clash  of  arms.     Summoned  to 

parley  ;  descends ;  is  arrested  and  conveyed  to  the  Tower. 
Scene  cR— Palace. 

Queen.     "  Where  is  the  Earl  ?  " 
Cecil.     ''''In  the   Toiver,  Your  Grace." 
ACT  v.— Scene  /.—Order  for  the  trial  of  Essex. 

Scene  2.— Queen  and  Francis  Bacon  ;  plea  for  pardon  of  Essex. 

Queen.     "  Your  treacherous  brother  dies!        *  * 

Thy  life''s  dependent  on  thy  brother^s  death. 
Let  our  instruction  to  thee  be  thy  guide. 
Under  the  penalty  of  thine  own  false  head. 
****** 

Peruse  this  writing  here,  atid  thou  shall  know 
'  Tis  death  for  death,  a  brother  for  a  brother: 
Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure: 
Like  doth  quit  like,  and  measure  still  for  measure.^'' 
Scenes. — Star  Chamber.    Trial  of  Essex.    He  denounces  Cecil.    Essex  condemned  to  execution. 
5(;^«^  ^.—Streets  of  London.     Essex  under  guard  ;   axe,  edge  toward  him  ;  led  to  dungeon. 
Scene  S.  —  G2.x6.&n  of  Palace.     Lady  Essex  and  child  before  the  Queen;  pleads  for  Essex's  life. 
Francis  Bacon  supports  her  and  supplicates  the  Queen,  without  result. 
Queen,        *  *         ^^  V II  see  that  he 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  morning." 
Scene  6.— Dungeon. 

Essex.     '■'■  No  bending  knee  will  call  me  Ccesar  now,"     (Enter  Bacon.) 
O  thou  damn''d  cur: 

Whom  to  call  brother  would  infect  my  mouth. 
Get  thee  gone,  thou  most  wicked  sir! 
***** 

Bacon.     '''' Is  it  my  fault  that  I  was  forced  to  plead? 
How  much  thou  lurongst  me.  Heaven  be  my  judge  " 
Essex  upbraids  him  with  sharpest  scorn.     Enter  Lord  Keeper  ;  commands  Bacon  to  depart ; 
gives  commission  to  jailor.    Jailors  bind  Essex  in  a  chair  ;  show  him  the  order, 
''''Must  you  with  hot  irons  burn  out  both  my  eyes  ? 
****** 

Cut  out  my  tongue  so  that  I  may  still  keep 

Both  mine  eyes.'"     (Jailor  tears  out  one  eye,  then  the  other.) 

^'All  dark  and  comfortless! 

God  enkindle  all  the  sparks  of  nature 

To  quit  this  horrid  act  .'" 

Jailor,     ^^Away  with  him!  lead hiin  to  the  block  .'" 


SPENSER, 


"  Spenser's  '  Shepheardes  Calender'  was  in  its  day  a  book  of 
great  interest,  not  only  because  it  made  the  world  acquainted 
with  '  the  new  poet,'  but  also  because  it  contained  allusions  to 
personages  of  distinction  well  known,  and  to  circumstances 
familiar  to  everybody.  From  1579-97,  in  a  space  of  eighteen 
years,  it  passed  through  five  different  editions. 

In  our  days  the  little  book  is  still  interesting,  but  for  other 
reasons.  Firstly,  as  the  earliest  work  of  importance  by  the 
writer  of  '  The  Faerie  Queen.'  Secondly,  because,  as  Dean 
Church  in  his  '  Life  of  Spenser '  appropriately  observes,  it 
marks  a  '  turning-point '  in  the  history  of  English  literature ; 
twenty  years  had  passed  since  the  publication  of  Tottel's  Mis- 
cellany, and  the  appearance  of  the  '  Shepheardes  Calender ' 
gave  a  new  impulse  to  English  Poetry.  Thirdly,  from  the 
mysterious  circumstances  connected  with  its  publication." 

The  following  are  some  of  the  "  mysterious  circumstances"  : 
On  December  5th,  1579,  "  The  Shepheardes  Calender "  was 
entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  under  the  name  of  Hugh  Singleton, 
according  to  the  following  transcript : 

Hughe  Singleton  ;  Lycenced  unto  him  the  Shepperdes  Calender  con- 
teyninge  xij  eclogues  proportionable  to  the  xij  monethes — vjd. 

Neither  in  the  entry  nor  on  title  page  is  the  author's  name 
mentioned,  but  on  its  verso  some  dedicatory  verses  are  signed 
"  Immerito." 

This  edition  is  dedicated,  or  "Entitled  to  the  Noble  and 
Vertuous  Gentlemen,  most  worthy  of  all  titles,  both  of  learning 
and  chevalrie,  M.  Philip  Sidney."  "  Printed  by  Hugh  Singleton, 
dwelling  in  Creede  Lane  neere  unto  Ludgate  at  the  signe  of  the 
gylden  Tunne,  and  are  there  to  be  solde." 

Four  copies  of  this  edition  are  known  to  exist : — 

1.  No.  11,532  of  the   Grenville   collection  of   the  British 

Museum. 

2.  In  the  Bodleian  Library,  Oxford. 

3.  No.  293  Capell,  T.  9,  in   Library   of  Trinity  College, 

Cambridge. 

4.  No.  427  of  the  Huth  Library. 

The  next  four  editions  are  published  by  John  Harrison  the 
younger,  to  whom  Hugh  Singleton  assigned  the  book  as  follows  : 

29  October  [1581]  ^ 
John  harrison :  Assigned  over  from  hugh  Singleton  to  have  the  shep- 
j)ardes  callender,  which  was  hughe  Singleton's  copie. — vjd. 


The  second  edition  was  "  Imprinted  at  London  by  Thomas 
East  for  John  Harrison  the  younger,  dwelling  Pater  noster  Roe, 
at  the  signe  of  the  Anker,  and  are  there  to  bee  solde.  1581." 
This  second  edition  is  olso  dedicated  to  Philip  Sidney.  It  is 
rare,  but  found  in  the  Grenville  Collection,  in  the  Bodleian, 
Trinity  College,  and  Huth  Libraries. 

The  third  edition  was  "  Imprinted  at  London  by  John 
Wolfe  for  John  Harrison  the  yonger,  dwelling  in  Pater  noster 
Roe,  at  the  signe  of  the  Anker.     1586." 

The  fourth  edition  was  "  Printed  by  John  Windet  for  John 
Harrison  the  yonger,  dwelling  Pater  noster  Roe,  etc.     1591." 

The  fifth  edition  was  "  Printed  by  Thomas  Creede  for  John 
Harrison  the  yonger,  dwelling  Pater  noster  Roe,  at  the  signe  of 
the  Anchor,  etc.     1597." 

In  1611,  together  with  some  other  poems,  the  Shepheardes 
Calender  appeared  for  the  first  time  with  the  poet's  name 
attached  to  it ;  this  volume  has  the  title  :  The  Faerie  Queen  : 
The  Shepheards  Calendar ;  Together  with  the  other  works  of 
England's  Arch-Poet,  Edm.  Spenser.  ^  Collected  into  one 
Volume  and  carefully  corrected.  Printed  by  H.  L.  for  Mathew 
Lownes.  Anno  Dom.  1611,  fol.  This  volume  is  dedicated  to 
Queen  Elizabeth  thus  :  To  the  Most  High,  Mightie,  and  Mag- 
nificent Emperesse,  Renouned  for  Pietie,  Vertue,  and  all  Gracious 
Government :  Elizabeth,  By  the  Grace  of  God,  Queene  of  Eng- 
land, France,  and  Ireland,  and  of  Virginia  :  Defender  of  the 
Faith,  &c.  Her  most  humble  Servaunt,  Edmund  Spenser,  doth 
in  all  humilitie  dedicate,  present,  and  consecrate  these  his  labouf  s, 
to  live  with  the  eternitie  of  her  Fame. 

Spenser  returned  to  England  (1598)  a  ruined,  heart-broken 
man,  and  died  in  the  January  following,  twelve  years  before  the 
hook  was  attributed  to  his  authorship,  and  the  above  dedication  to 
Queen   Elizabeth. 

By  what  authority  is  this  book  claimed  for  Spenser. 

The  following  lines  are  from  the  dedicatory  verses  of  the 
first  edition. 

Goe  little  booJce:    thy  self e  present, 
As  child  whose  parent  is  unkent: 
***** 

But  if  that  any  aske  thy  name, 
Say  thou  wert  base  begot  with  blame: 
For  thy  thereof  thou  takest  shame. 
And  ivhen  thou  art  past  jeopardee, 
Come  tell  me,  ivhat  was  sayd  of  mee: 
And  I  ivill  send  more  after  thee. 

Immeriio. 


^ 


LOS  Angeies 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


r» 


"^7  JAN  1  0  l^"^*) 

<^'^  JAN  14195^ 


« r 


REC'D  tD-UPi: 
I     JUN    i  ^ 


im.  JAiJi     1971 

JAN  13 1971 


/ID?      4    'SSI    ^^ 


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JMAX  17  198 


NOV  1 2  197*     «c-^'i% 


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Ste^rtling  Theory  as  to  Rizzio. 

Vrom  The  London  Chronicle. 

ins    controversy   ^^°j^\^  ^^J^,^ 'unexpected  supply 
will  be  provided  ^^ith  a^er>   u        p  ^^^_^ 

of  fresh   material      It   IS  said  tnat  ..^^^ 

been  found  in  the  Papal  f^o'^|^°\i4  °  rii,,io  was 
,  documents    ^^hicn  n^ake    t  c-ear  u  ^^^^ 

not  a   prof^«^^<^"^l^7J^,%^t!l?'he  m^  mass 

had  adopted  a  <li?«}i';f  "i  safety  to  the  Queen 

'  and  otherwise  ";""  ^/^^  ''^  atten<i^"t«-  To  be- 
^.^^    ^^^in^'Sry-s    all   round    innocence    of    the 

■lievers   in    Mary  s^ 2' St   ^^^^^^   pbyjously   be 


